


Into This Dream

by orphan_account



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-06
Updated: 2009-06-05
Packaged: 2017-10-02 16:37:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's my best friend. I wish I could have been his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. If I could change the world

**Author's Note:**

> I...have no words. All I can say is, this started as an absolutely adorable bunny. You're going to have to trust me on that, because in the time since then, that bunny has completely fallen apart around me, and as a result, I am posting a version of this story that I am violently unhappy with. Actually, this is version 5.0 of this story, and so far, they have all been versions that I am violently unhappy with. So. I have given up. But I promise; it was once a totally adorable bunny. Here it is, for better or worse: thanks go to all of my hard-working betas

_1._

_if I could change the world_

 

 

 

Brendon wakes to the sound of snickers coming from his kitchen.

 

He drags himself down the hall—he slept late again, it's weird. Maybe he's getting sick or something. Brendon is usually an early riser, but this is like the third time this week he's been the last one up. 

 

Spencer and Ryan are still laughing as Brendon shuffles into the kitchen. Their heads are bent companionably together over a bowl of something that looks a lot like cookie dough. Or at least, what cookie dough would look like if it happened to have been exposed to a whole bunch of radiation.

 

"Is that..._green _cookie dough?" Brendon asks skeptically, stretching his neck to peer into the bowl from across the counter.

 

Seriously, _green _isn't even a strong enough word. Brendon isn't sure there _is _a strong enough word to describe this color. Glow-in-the-dark might come close. Visible-from-space might come even closer.

 

Spencer looks up, laughing around a bright-green mouthful of dough. "Ryan found the food coloring last night at the grocery store. Isn't it awesome? We haven't had this stuff since we were kids."

 

Ryan grins around his finger, which is busy depositing another lump of dough into his mouth. "Spencer's mom used to make us green cookies when we were little, and tell us they were made of kryptonite and they were going to give us superpowers." He pauses. "I don't think she totally understood about kryptonite, actually."

 

Brendon snickers, still eyeing the dough askance. He isn't sure if actual _cookies _this color would be any more appetizing than the dough, but maybe to a five-year-old it wouldn't matter.

 

"If you want to bake them," he offers, still not quite clear on why there is cookie dough happening at—holy shit, is it seriously noon?

 

"Nah," Spencer disagrees, grabbing another glop of dough. "We're manly men now. We like to eat our kryptonite raw."

 

Ryan snorts, and offers the bowl to Brendon, who shrugs, and scoops out a fingerful. "Can I special-request the superpowers I actually want," he wonders, popping the dough into his mouth, "or do we just get stuck with whatever's randomly assigned?"

 

"I already called dibs on telekinesis," Ryan explains solemnly.  "And Spencer wants to fly."

 

Spencer suddenly starts laughing around another big bite of dough, half-choking himself to death. "Dude, remember—?"

Ryan groans, starting to laugh, himself. "That's right, holy shit. We had a pact, after—oh my God, how did we not kill ourselves?" He laughs again, and points at Brendon. "Okay, well, good news for you. Flying is back on the table—Spencer has to pick something else."

 

Brendon watches Spencer, who is still chuckling sheepishly with bright eyes, lost in some childhood memory. He feels a pang of something familiar and wistful, and swallows hard against it, because he is an idiot. He shakes off the feeling as best he can, and finds a smirk for Ryan.

 

"Yeah, well, I didn't want to fly anyway," he says. "I call teleportation. Soon, you will have lived in LA long enough to recognize and stand in awe of my brilliance and foresight."

 

"Too bad," Spencer puts in mournfully. "Flying would have come in handy for traffic, too."

 

Ryan pats Spencer sympathetically on the arm. "We'll just make Brendon take us everywhere," he offers. "And if he tries to refuse, I can throw things at him. With my brain." He takes a triumphant bite to punctuate this statement, clearly pleased with himself.

 

Brendon narrows his eyes. "Using your powers for evil, Ryan Ross," he says reproachfully. "That's not very nice."

 

"Ha," says Ryan thickly around his mouthful. "Watch me not caring. Also, the pact forbids me from telling you how I know this, but Spencer was _totally _going to use his flying power for evil, too, so there."

 

"Now, I'm going to use my _invisibility _power for evil," Spencer puts in absently, stealing the bowl.

 

Brendon sighs, although privately, he is thinking that an invisibility power would be pretty awesome to use for evil. "You guys just make me sad. Whatever happened to the superhero code of honor?"

 

Spencer and Ryan give him identical pitying looks. "Overrated," they say, at exactly the same time.

  
Brendon crosses his arms. "You know I think it's creepy when you do that." 

  
Truthfully, he doesn't think it's creepy at all. He thinks it's awesome. But it also makes him jealous as hell, and that makes _him _feel creepy, so it all works out the same.

  
Ryan shrugs, half-apologetic, half-unconcerned. "Quit hogging the kryptonite," is all he says, and snags the bowl back from where Spencer has taken possession.

 

—

 

Spencer and Ryan wander off somewhere together after a hearty lunch of grilled cheese and more kryptonite. Brendon flops down on his couch and wishes Spencer was still around. He wants to play Guitar Hero. Or maybe watch a stupid Will Farrell movie or something. Either way, Spencer is definitely the companion of choice—Ryan is currently in one of his "highbrow-humor" phases, and spends a lot of time decrying the Will Farrells and the Adam Sandlers of the world. Consequently, Spencer and Brendon spend a lot of time furtively darting around popping in movies the minute his back is turned.

 

Spencer is busy, though, and Brendon refuses to let himself resent it. Ryan is his best friend, and his LA house-hunting and, like, furniture-shopping and everything...that's all important stuff. Spencer-and-Ryan stuff. Brendon gets that. He's always sort of wanted a best friend of his very own to do all that stuff with.

 

Or...well. Truthfully, he's always sort of wanted _Ryan's _best friend for his very own to do all that stuff with. Spencer is just...Brendon doesn't even know. It's like, Ryan and Jon are completely awesome, and Brendon totally loves them more than they will ever know, but when it comes to Spencer, Brendon gets downright ridiculous and he knows it. It's almost embarrassing, like hero-worship or something. It's just. Ryan and Jon are awesome, but there is something about Spencer that just goes right past awesome and into _amazing._ Brendon isn't even sure what it _is, _although he has lots of theories—it's just, Spencer is kind of endlessly fascinating to Brendon. He's so fun and funny and laid-back and clever and protective and fierce and occasionally bitchy, and just—

 

Whatever, yeah, Brendon's kind of an idiot about Spencer. It's not like it's news.

 

It _is _kind of pathetic, though. Brendon feels a lot of the time like he sort of ends up just following Spencer around like an annoying little brother or an over-eager puppy. He doesn't even _want _anything from Spencer, except maybe a little attention—he just sort of wants to be _around _him. Like, all the time.

  
Ryan probably doesn't even know how fucking lucky he is.

 

But that isn't fair. Spencer is taken; his best-friend dance card is totally full, and just because Brendon would kind of kill to be in Ryan's shoes doesn't mean Ryan doesn't deserve what he's got. It's not like he's actually taking anything from Brendon—he was there first, like, _really _first, _childhood _first. And even if he wasn't Spencer's best friend, that doesn't mean that _Brendon _would be. Honestly, probably Jon would. He and Spencer have a lot in common. It's kind of depressing.

 

Brendon pushes himself off the couch, suddenly listless, and wanders over to his piano. He messes around for awhile, but gives up on that when everything he plays ends up being weirdly melancholy. Then he goes back to the practice room and fucks around on Spencer's drum kit for awhile, banging along with whatever song happens to be playing on his iPod at the time. 

 

Eventually, though, even that gets boring, and Brendon ends up wandering around aimlessly again, just sort of lost in his own house, moving from room to room, picking things up and putting them back down again. He stands in his kitchen for almost twenty minutes, flipping through a cookbook with every intention of amusing himself with some elaborate cooking scheme, but everything sounds boring and he isn't really hungry anyway. He really filled up on the kryptonite earlier.

 

His Sidekick going off sounds like a chorus of angels, and he leaps on it with embarrassing enthusiasm.

 

"Hello?"

 

"Hey," says Patrick, and that's a welcome surprise. "Are you busy right now?"

 

"God, no," Brendon tells him, maybe a little too fervently.  "You cannot believe how much I am _not _busy right now."

 

Patrick laughs warmly. "I'm in your area. Mind if I come by? We're going back into the studio soon, and we want you on vocals for one of the songs...again."

  
Brendon laughs, feeling something like happy for the first time all day. "Yeah," he says eagerly. "Yeah. Bring it by, or I can meet you somewhere to look at it. Or—"

 

"Brendon," Patrick says, and Brendon can hear that he's smiling. "I'll be there in half an hour."

 

—

 

Brendon and Patrick aren't particularly close, but two bigger music geeks would be very difficult to find, so it's no real surprise to either of them when "looking at the song," turns into "messing around in the music room until three-thirty in the morning." By the time they emerge, bleary-eyed, Brendon has half of three new melodies written, and Patrick has composed something that might require a full backing orchestra and possibly part of a jazz band to pull off, but which is going to be _awesome _when it's finished.

  
They finally stagger out, still babbling randomly at each other in half-sentences about all the stuff they've been working on, only to find Spencer in the hallway with a glass of water, obviously on his way back from the kitchen. He's looking at them both with a strange expression Brendon can't really decipher in the semi-darkness.

 

"Oh, shit, sorry," Brendon says, making apologetic eyes at Spencer. "Did we wake you up?"

 

"No." Spencer sounds funny, but he smiles easily enough at Patrick. "Had to pee. Did you guys have fun in your music coma?"

 

Brendon and Patrick laugh ruefully, and Spencer smiles at them both again before disappearing back down the hall. Brendon stares after him.

 

"I hope I didn't piss him off," he says worriedly.

 

Patrick bites his lip. "I should go."

 

"What?" Brendon looks back at Patrick, confused. "No way, dude, you're half-asleep. The guest room is taken, but I have a king-sized bed and you...well, you're in a band with Pete, so..."

 

Patrick grins. "Yeah," he says fondly. "Bed-sharing is not so much a big deal for me anymore. All right." He waves a hand at the hallway. "Lead the way."

 

—

 

Patrick, as it turns out, has a weird habit of humming softly in his sleep. Brendon alternates between finding this to be an endearing habit, and an exceptionally annoying one, depending on which of the five times it wakes him up that night you happen to be asking about.

 

By the time they both find themselves awake and ready to climb out of bed—Brendon has a _really _comfortable bed, if he does say so himself—it is nearly one o'clock in the afternoon, and Brendon feels less rested than he probably should after that many hours of ostensibly sleeping. 

 

He doesn't blame Patrick, though. Patrick is awesome, and, as it turns out, a totally easy-going snuggler. A lot of things about Pete make more sense now.

 

They stumble down the hall, Patrick tugging on his hat en route, and snicker sheepishly together when Brendon catches himself humming Patrick's sleep-song under his breath.

 

Spencer and Ryan are slumped on the sofa, watching some kind of documentary that appears to involve gazelles mating. They look up when Brendon and Patrick shuffle past on their way to the kitchen.

 

"Morning," Patrick says amiably. "Sorry if we were loud last night."

 

Ryan chokes, and Brendon starts giggling in spite of himself. "But baby," he says to Patrick, leering outrageously. "I thought you _liked _it when I was noisy."

 

Patrick blushes right up to the brim of his hat. "Shut up," he mutters, grinning in spite of himself. "Fucking idiots."

 

Spencer doesn't say anything at all. His expression looks a little pinched, and Brendon wonders if they really did piss him off somehow last night.

 

He doesn't want to ask in front of Patrick, so instead he busies himself making breakfast—("Pop tarts?" Patrick asks him, amused. "You really know how to treat a guy right." "_Toasted _pop-tarts," Brendon retorts smugly. "Nothing but the best for you, sweetheart.")—and puttering around making coffee for himself, and tea for Patrick, who he remembers from various studio sessions has a weird aversion to coffee. 

 

Pete calls Patrick halfway through their pop tarts, and he wanders aimlessly off down the hall, chattering around his mouthful about how much writing they got done last night.

 

Spencer studies Brendon silently while Patrick is out of the room. Brendon squirms under the scrutiny.

 

"I really am sorry if we woke you up," he says uncertainly.

 

"You didn't." Spencer frowns. "You seem happy this morning."

 

Brendon blinks, wondering why that would be the bad thing Spencer sort of looks like he thinks it is. "I am," he says cautiously. "We had...fun?"

 

Spencer blanks his expression. "Well, good," he says back flatly. "I'm happy for you."

 

Brendon shoots a helpless look at Ryan, who looks a little confused by Spencer's behavior, himself. "Um," he says. "...Thank you."

 

Patrick reemerges from the bedroom just then, wearing his shoes and socks and clutching his notes from last night. "I'm gonna get out of here," he tells Brendon, smiling. "Pete wants to hear the new stuff. Thanks for everything, though. It was fun."

 

"Any time," Brendon assures him sincerely. "Seriously, we should totally make plans."

 

Patrick grins, future music-comas already gleaming in his eyes. "I'll call."

  
Brendon walks him to the door, going along gracefully when Patrick hesitates, and then tugs him outside onto the porch. "Everything okay?" he asks, concerned.

 

Patrick pulls the door closed, biting his lip. "Spencer seems pissed," he says quietly. "Is it at me? Did we actually disturb him, or like. Did I do something...?"

 

"No, no," Brendon says hurriedly, despite having wondered the same things himself all morning. "He's cool, I swear. He was just telling me how happy he was we had such a good time.  He's just...I don't know. He has weird moods sometimes."

 

Patrick nods sympathetically. "Pete, too. I just wanted to make sure we were cool."

 

"We're cool," Brendon promises. Whatever Spencer's problem is, it's almost certainly not with _Patrick._ "We're all totally cool."

 

"Cool," Patrick agrees, and flicks Brendon affectionately on the forehead. "Okay, I'm out of here. I'll call about the studio times for the song."

 

"And about another writing party," Brendon reminds him cheerfully.

 

"You got it."

 

Patrick takes his leave, and Brendon watches until his car disappears from sight, and catches himself thinking that it's almost too bad Patrick already has Pete. Patrick really is awesome, and always seems genuinely excited to be talking to Brendon, largely because they are almost exactly the same kind of nerd, just in slightly different ways. If things had been different, maybe Brendon and _Patrick _would have been best friends, and then maybe Brendon's Spencer thing wouldn't be so out of control, and—whatever. It doesn't really matter. Patrick and Pete are BFF like Ryan and Spencer are BFF, and anyway, awesome or not, he isn't the best friend Brendon really wants, and Brendon knows it. 

 

He lets himself back into the house, only to be startled by the sight of Spencer disappearing into the hallway. A minute later, the guest bedroom door closes loudly.

 

"Seriously," Brendon says to Ryan, eyes wide. "What the _fuck?"_

 

Ryan looks bewildered, which is a rare sight where Spencer is concerned. "Dude," he says, shrugging helplessly. "I have no fucking idea."  

 

—

 

 

Spencer seems to shake off his mood within a couple of hours, and by dinnertime everything is mostly normal again. They all three go out together, heading for a little Italian place Ryan really likes, and Brendon feels happier than he has in what seems like a long while. Maybe he's starting to snap out of his funk.

 

When they get back to the house, Spencer plays Guitar Hero with him for an hour or so, until Ryan suddenly materializes from the guest room, where he'd been holed up with a notebook, and makes meaningful eyes at Spencer.

 

Spencer pauses the game. "What's up?"

 

"I was just thinking about that house we looked at yesterday," Ryan says. "And I realized there were a few things wrong with it."

 

Spencer raises an eyebrow, and shrugs apologetically at Brendon. "Rain check?"

 

Brendon resolutely does not sigh or pout. "Go," he says, as cheerfully as he can. "Do your best friend thing."

 

Spencer grins at him, and follows Ryan out of the room.

 

"I didn't realize they were _secret _house-problems," Brendon mutters crabbily to himself, once he's alone in the room. "Whatever."

 

He finds a different documentary on TV—one about various giant flowers in the Amazon that look like something out of Harry Potter's Herbology class—and settles in on the couch, feeling listless and melancholy again.

  
He doesn't even watch for twenty minutes before giving up and going to bed. 

 

—

 

Spencer and Ryan are whispering together when Brendon finds his way into the kitchen the next morning. Brendon ignores the now-familiar twinge of jealousy, the vague sense of _left-out-unwanted-lonely _that tries to creep over him.

 

"Morning," he greets.

 

Spencer wrinkles his nose. "Afternoon," he corrects. "You've been sleeping a lot lately. You're not getting sick, are you?"

 

Brendon doesn't feel like going down that road. "Just tired," he says, shrugging. "And maybe bored. You know how it is."

 

Ryan and Spencer look skeptical, which Brendon understands. Boredom tends to affect him the way depression usually does—making him twitchier, more energetic, more manic than he normally is.

 

It's still the best answer he has, though, especially because it's kind of true. If by "bored," you mean, "_left-out-unwanted-lonely_."

 

He'd thought having Ryan and Spencer stay with him while Ryan found a place would help with that, but honestly, he sort of thinks it might be making it worse. Living on a bus with them is one thing—it's hard to feel especially left-out of anything when everybody's living right on top of each other, and Jon's presence is a big help when Brendon _does _start to feel too much like an outsider in the world of Spencer-and-Ryan—but here in the house, the exclusivity of their friendship feels more obvious than it ever has before.

 

Brendon feels a sudden pang of longing for Jon.

 

"—Brendon?"

 

Brendon blinks. Spencer is staring at him, looking openly concerned now and sounding like he may have been trying to get Brendon's attention for awhile. The irony is not lost on Brendon.

 

"Sorry," he says, shoving aside his self-pitying thoughts. Those don't fit any better on him than depression does. They make him feel stupid and weirdly guilty. It makes his skin itch and his stomach swim. "I'm zoning. What's up?"

 

"He just asked about your plans for today," Ryan puts in, when Spencer only continues to stare at Brendon anxiously.

 

Brendon raises an eyebrow. "Well, I'm still waiting for the kryptonite to kick in, but then, you know, I figured I'd pop down to Antarctica and build a really ass-kicking snowman, and then I have sand-castles in the Sahara at four, and after that—"

 

"Fuck off, smart ass." Ryan rolls his eyes. "You really have no plans for today?"

 

"Dude." Brendon snorts. "I have had no plans for the last three weeks. You would know, you've been here. Why? Was there something you guys wanted to do?"

 

"No." Ryan exchanges a weird glance with Spencer; Brendon can't read it. "We—I mean. We have some more house-hunting stuff we have to go do—"

 

"Can I tag along?" Brendon wouldn't usually invite himself along, but they _did _just ask about his plans, so.

 

Spencer looks uncomfortable and suddenly deeply conflicted. "Um. We..."

 

Even Ryan looks weird. "The thing is—"

 

Brendon sighs, and turns around to pour himself a bowl of cereal. "Don't worry about it," he says flatly. "It's fine."

 

"Hey, no," Spencer says, sounding wretched. "Brendon—"

 

"Seriously." Brendon looks up from his cereal and forces a smile when he sees Spencer's expression. "It's no big deal. I'll...call Patrick, or something. You guys should go do your thing."

 

Maybe he'll call Jon. Maybe he'll call Jon and ask him outright what it is that is so wrong with him that apparently Spencer and Ryan would actually _say no _when he asked if he could come on their stupid boring house-hunt. Maybe he'll call Jon and ask if he can move to Chicago and be Jon's best friend.

  
Tom would probably be pissed about that. Brendon is maybe willing to risk it anyway, though. He's tired of everyone already having their best friend before he showed up. Maybe some people are just always destined to be that kid picked last in gym class.

  
Brendon has a _lot _of experience being that kid. It's funny how even being a rock star really doesn't really change anything: if you were that kid once, you're that kid _forever_. It's only the gym class that changes.

 

Spencer and Ryan don't seem inclined to leave, all of a sudden. They sort of _hover, _and exchange a lot of complicated facial expressions, and spend a lot of time eyeing the clock, but no matter how many times Brendon tells them to just _go _already, they seem suddenly reluctant to do it.

  
Brendon is just fine without their pity, thank you very much. Eventually, unable to take it anymore, he excuses himself for a shower and runs a hot bath instead. He doesn't come out of the bathroom for an hour and a half.

 

When he finally does, Spencer and Ryan are gone.

 

—

 

Jon isn't answering his phone, and Brendon feels weird about actually calling Patrick. He calls Shane instead, but Shane is a little distant, and Brendon feels bad. Shane is still a newlywed, after all, and is probably busy with Regan, as well he should be.

  
Brendon ends up spending most of the afternoon and early evening in the music room, fucking around on every single instrument he has. He teaches himself how to play That Green Gentleman backwards, and is halfway through turning Behind the Sea into something with all the joy and whimsy of a funeral dirge—namely, by playing it on the cello at half-speed and singing along with himself in the most tragic voice he can manage—when his Sidekick bursts to life.

 

"Hey," says Patrick, for the second time in two days.

 

"Hey," Brendon says back, smiling for the first time in, like, four hours. "I thought the rule was to wait three days before calling somebody you slept with."

 

Patrick snorts. "Dickhead," he says fondly. "Pete and I are going to grab dinner at this Indian place he's been bugging me to take him to. It's not far from you—aren't you a curry fan?"

 

"Yeah," Brendon says, surprised and a little flattered by the offer. "Sure, that sounds great. What time and where?"

 

"We'll swing by and pick you up," Patrick says cheerfully. "You're on our way. Pete's driving, so you'll be sitting next to a car seat, but...."

 

"Put the baby in the car seat, and I'll sit next to it all day," Brendon suggests hopefully.

 

Patrick laughs, and repeats the suggestion to Pete, who snatches the phone away and spends the next fifteen minutes chattering excitedly to Brendon about Bronx and how preternaturally awesome he is. Brendon grins helplessly at his phone.

 

"So is that a yes, you're bringing him, then?"

 

"No." Pete sighs dejectedly. "He's with the in-laws tonight. So is Ash, for that matter. I know I have to share sometimes, but it still sucks."

 

"That does suck," Brendon agrees sympathetically, but Patrick has already stolen the phone back from Pete.

  
"Dude, just so you know, we're actually calling from the car right now. You have like twenty minutes to get dressed before we get there."

 

"Do I need to be dressed _up?"_ Brendon asks skeptically, eyeing his jeans and T-shirt with some suspicion.

 

"Um," Patrick says thoughtfully. "What do you consider dressed up?"

 

Brendon bites his lip, contemplative. "What hat are you wearing?" 

 

"What _hat _am I...um." Patrick laughs again, confused. "The black one?"

 

Pete starts laughing in the background, and snatches the phone back again. "Black cabbie hat," he says into the mouthpiece. "No trucker hat, so the place is nice, but not fedora-nice."

 

"Got it," Brendon says, nodding.

 

"I love you, by the way," Pete tells him earnestly. His grin is actually _audible _through the phone. "I really thought I was the only one who used the Patrick-hat scale."

 

"If that hadn't worked, I would have used the Pete-hoodie scale," Brendon tells him gravely. "Clan hoodie is more upscale than non-Clan hoodie. No hoodie at all means practically black tie event."

 

Pete laughs at him. "Go get dressed. You have fifteen minutes."

 

He hangs up the phone before Brendon can even say goodbye.

 

—

 

The ride to the restaurant passes in a happy haze of music talk with Patrick, and baby talk with Pete. Brendon basks in the unaccustomed level of Fall Out Boy attention—they're all friendly, but Pete is more Ryan's friend than Brendon's, and Patrick is sort of a friendly-colleague, not really a _buddy _friend—and doesn't think about Spencer and Ryan running off and ignoring him all day, _again, _even once. Or at least, not much.

 

He's so wrapped up in the conversation that they're out of the car and walking to the front doors before Brendon actually realizes that they aren't even _at _an Indian food restaurant. They're at some kind of nightclub.

 

"What--?" he starts to ask, but Patrick pushes him through the door, and then there's a strobe-light in his face and a second or two of unnatural silence before—

 

"_SURPRISE!!!!!"_ shouts what sounds like roughly half of LA.

 

Brendon actually stumbles backward into Patrick, who catches him with a friendly arm around his shoulders and a beaming, self-satisfied grin that rivals even Pete's.

 

"What the _fuck?_" wonders Brendon—and that's when the light-bulb goes on in his brain. "Holy shit!" he exclaims, honestly shocked. "It's my fucking birthday!"

 

Laughter breaks out all around him, and then Brendon actually starts _looking _at people. Right at the front of the crowd stand Spencer, Ryan, and—

 

"_Jon!" _Brendon shouts joyfully, and flings himself forward and into Jon's arms with abandon. "Oh, my god, dude, I have _missed _you—oh! Is Cassie here? Spencer! Ryan! Did you guys do this? Oh, my _god, _I can't believe it's my fucking _birthday!"_

 

He feels all lit up inside, all light and fizzy like there's champagne bubbling under his skin, and he can't seem to stop himself from throwing himself at Spencer, then at Ryan, too. Then maybe at Spencer again, although he'll never admit to it later.

 

_You weren't ignoring me, _he doesn't say. Can't say. _You weren't brushing me off! You weren't trying to get rid of me!_

 

"_I _can't believe you _forgot your own _birthday!" Ryan tells him dryly, and Brendon pokes out his tongue, but he's already being dragged out of Spencer's comforting arms by various other insistent hands.

 

"You guys," is all he had the chance to say, as he's tugged away into the crowd by someone he thinks might be Siska. "You guys..._thank _you!"

 

Spencer grins at Brendon with so much warm affection that Brendon thinks he might just float away on it.

 

_He's my best friend, _he thinks, and it feels like an epiphany, even though it really isn't. _He's my best friend. I wish I could have been his._

 

—

 

 

The party is long, and loud, and Brendon-the-birthday-boy—seriously, how did he _forget _his own _birthday??—_is very much in demand. He almost regrets that part, although he has an awesome time circulating and chatting with everybody. But it leaves him less time to dangle off the shoulders of his friends (especially Spencer, Brendon isn't kidding himself about that) and babble gratefully at them all night, which is sort of what he feels like doing most of all.

 

"Spencer planned the whole thing," Ryan tells him, during one of the spare moments Brendon finds to come hang off them for awhile. "It's been in the works for a month, and this last week we've been doing basically nothing else."

 

He sounds fond and long-suffering and sort of proud of Spencer. Brendon mostly just feels ridiculous with gratitude.

 

"Spencer Smith," Brendon tells him earnestly. (He may have had a beer or two. A few. A few beers, okay?) "Ryan is a lucky, lucky man to have you for a best friend."

 

Spencer flushes visibly, even under the flashing strobe lights. "Don't be an idiot," he says gruffly. "You're our best friend, too."

 

Brendon has no illusions about the reality of that statement, but the sentiment behind it is much appreciated. 

 

"Hey," Ryan puts in, kind of uncomfortably. "Speaking of party planning...leaving you alone today was really...."

 

"Fucking miserable," Spencer supplies guiltily. "And on your fucking _birthday._ Please tell me you didn't spend the day alone and sad."

 

Brendon resolves immediately never to tell them what his day was actually like. "I didn't even know it was my birthday," he says reasonably, instead. "And I totally found lots of stuff to do. Don't worry about it."

 

Spencer looks openly skeptical, but Gabe chooses that moment to materialize next to them and pour himself all over Brendon like really clingy molasses.

 

"I have a bone to pick with you, tiny birthday boy," he says, very gravely. Gabe's breath smells positively flammable. "A very serious bone. It involves birthday kisses, and the fact that I haven't been getting any."

 

Brendon braces his shoulders a bit more firmly under the deadweight that is Gabe, and points out, "That's probably because it isn't your birthday, dude."

 

Gabe eyes him narrowly, and Brendon smiles back hopefully and throws his fangs up.

 

"That's not going to work," Gabe tells him sternly, although he looks pleased in spite of himself. "Do not try to distract me. I haven't been getting any birthday kisses," he stresses, "from _you._ That is unacceptable."

 

Brendon glances, wide-eyed and faintly alarmed, at his bandmates, who all just stand there watching Gabe molest him with apparent fascination.

 

"My heart belongs to Patrick Stump?" Brendon tries uncertainly.

 

Gabe snorts. "Tell me about it," he agrees sadly, and, to Brendon's surprise, oozes away to molest another target.

 

"Ooo-_kay,_" Brendon says, turning incredulous eyes on his friends. "That guy gets weirder every single time I see him."

 

Spencer's smile looks a little bit tight. "Fair warning, Beckett is around here somewhere, too."

 

Brendon wrinkles his nose, and Jon laughs at him, throwing an arm around his shoulders. "Poor pretty birthday boy," he sympathizes. "Too kissable for your own good."

 

"That never happened," Brendon objects, looking around shiftily. "We all agreed that never happened. As far as I'm concerned, Beckett wasn't even _on _that tour, and there was certainly no kissing, birthday or otherwise. You promised."

 

Patrick turns up then to drag Brendon back off into the crowd, this time to meet some new baby band Pete just signed. Patrick is producing, and apparently wants to talk to Brendon about doing yet more vocals on other people's albums. Brendon allows himself to be dragged away, but not without a pleading glance backward at Spencer.

 

Spencer, though, is looking determinedly in the other direction, and fails to come to Brendon's rescue.

 

At around midnight, several lights flash in quick succession, apparently as some kind of signal, because Brendon finds himself being shoved out into the middle of a rapidly-forming ring of party-goers. A chair has been set up at some point, and Brendon is pushed unceremoniously into it. 

 

Spencer, Ryan, and Jon do the honors, rolling out an actual, massive, tiered cake-on-wheels. Brendon's jaw drops. It is the tackiest, sparkliest, most enormous cake he has ever seen in actual person, and he could not love it more.

 

"If a naked lady is about to pop out of this cake," he tells his friends happily, "I am going to stab you all to death with the serving knife."

 

"We're not _stupid,_" Ryan says huffily.

 

"It would totally be a naked man if it was anything," Jon adds.

 

Brendon sticks out his tongue, but secretly sort of hopes for a naked man. Whatever, that would be awesome.

 

The cake is lit with what look like actual sparklers, although Brendon hopes they're just fancy candles, or else that top layer is going to taste really weird. He leans forward at his friends' urging, and is about to blow them out when Ryan reminds him, "Hey, make a wish."

 

Brendon glances up, and his eyes meet Spencer's smiling ones. Spencer, who put together this whole party for him. Spencer, who is leaning comfortably on Ryan's shoulder like he belongs there, but is smiling so brightly at Brendon that it almost hurts to look at. A wish bubbles up inside of Brendon almost against his own will, the same one he's been having all night long.

 

_You're my best friend,_ he thinks again, wistfully, gazing at Spencer. _I wish I could have been yours._

 

He leans forward and blows out the candles.

 

—


	2. I would be the sunlight in your universe

_2._

_I would be the sunlight in your universe_

 

 

 

 

Rock star or no, waking up alone and naked in an unfamiliar house is not really part of Brendon's normal lifestyle. He spends a few quiet minutes _freaking the fuck out_ before he can even bring himself to crawl out from under the blankets in search of some clothes.

  
There are track pants and a t-shirt on the floor in Brendon's size, which is weird: he'd gone to the party in girl jeans and one of Spencer's black button-down shirts, and the track pants are clearly not _his_—they're white with tacky zebra-stripe patterns running down the sides, and they are _awesome, _but Brendon doesn't have any like this—but the tiny black t-shirt emblazoned with the words, _Motherfucking Rock Star_ is definitely his, and the track pants are exactly the same style as the ones he's always wearing to slouch around his own house in.

 

Anyway, he has to wear _something, _so he steals the track pants and the shirt before padding nervously over to the door. Whoever's room this is has awesome taste, he notices idly. Track pants and t-shirt notwithstanding, the room itself is exactly Brendon's style—a crazy conglomeration of colors and patterns that shouldn't work together, but somehow does anyway. Yellow walls, blue-and-white bedspread with bright orange sheets and pillow-cases, purple bedside lamp...it's chaotic but cheerful, and the framed band posters on three walls are awesome, but in no way as awesome as the enormous corkboard taking up virtually the entire fourth one. Brendon would totally stand there looking at all the pictures and fliers and postcards and general chaos plastered all over it all day long, if he didn't have to go face his destiny.

 

Or at least his apparent date from last night.

 

He exits the room and finds himself in a nondescript-but-still-unfamiliar hallway, which in turn opens out into a stairwell leading down into the living room. By the time Brendon makes it down the stairs, he's moved past confused and into creeped-out. There is totally a giant black-and-white photograph of Brendon playing the piano over the mantle of the fireplace, and the wall leading down the stairs is dotted with framed-and-matted snapshots of Spencer, Ryan, Jon, and Brendon himself. It's fucking creepy, is what it is.

 

"Hello?" he calls out cautiously, wondering if he should just make a break for the door. He's barefoot, though, wearing someone else's clothes, and he has no idea where his wallet went or what the fuck happened last night. He could have sworn he remembered getting in the car with Spencer and Ryan to go home. He was pretty sure he fell asleep on the way, but that still doesn't explain how he ended up _here._

 

Upstairs, a door opens, and shuffling footsteps make their way down the hall toward the stairs. Brendon is almost afraid to look.

  
As it turns out, he doesn't have to.

 

A very, very familiar voice says, "What're you standing around the stairs for, you idiot?" just as Brendon's eyes fall on a photograph that sends an actual chill down his spine.

  
Two little boys, maybe five years old, are standing side-by-side on a playground, beaming at the camera. Brendon knows those little boys. He _is _one of those little boys. But there is no way that photograph can possibly be real.

 

He didn't even _know _Spencer when he was five years old.

 

"Seriously," says Spencer behind him, and Brendon turns slowly to face him, nearly falling down the stairs at the sight. "You are fucking weird this morning, dude," Spencer continues, eyebrows raised. "Could we maybe move this party into the kitchen so I can get some fucking coffee, or is this one of those nervous breakdowns that has to happen right here, right now?"

 

Brendon stares up at Spencer—Spencer, unquestionably Spencer, but with a trendy haircut and a clean-shaven face, slimmer than he should be and decked out in a pair of hip-enhancing track pants of his own—and can't make a single sound.

 

—

 

Weirdly, being in total shock is what ends up kind of clueing Brendon in on what's happened. His mind is a complete blank as he lets the bizarro-Spencer push him down the stairs and into the kitchen, and it is in that blanked-out state that he comes to realize he is moving around the kitchen like he knows it inside out—grabbing two mugs from the cupboard to the right of the sink, passing Spencer a coffee filter from the drawer next to the refrigerator, pulling a canister of hazelnut powdered creamer out of the door of the tall pantry cabinet.

 

He shouldn't know where any of this stuff is, but he _does, _and when he really reaches, he can find actual _memories _to go along with them.

 

_("No," Spencer says, grabbing the box of pots and pans from Brendon's hands. "Pots and pans go in the lower cabinets, by the stove. Everybody knows that, everybody puts them in the same place, because that is where they go."_

 

_"That's boring," Brendon retorts, snatching up the box with their silverware and utensils, and starting to unload them into the drawers in the island. "Doing what everybody else does. Since when are you a sheep, Spencer Smith?"_

 

_Spencer reaches over Brendon's shoulder and into the box, retrieving a ladle, which he uses to bop Brendon on the head. "You didn't have a problem with it at the apartment."_

 

_"But this is a house," Brendon insists. "We are real, live rock stars, and we have our very own house now. This is no time for conformity."_

 

_"I like conformity," Spencer says comfortably, and turns back to unloading the pots and pans. Behind his back, Brendon eyes his sparkly pink t-shirt and girl jeans, and snorts._

 

_"Yeah," he agrees dryly. "It looks good on you.")_

 

Back in the present, Spencer pours their coffee and hands one to Brendon, twisting to lean his back against the counter and study Brendon with eyes that are so familiar, and yet _all wrong._

 

"What's wrong, seriously?" Spencer asks him, and Brendon wants to shout, wants to scream, _I don't fucking know, I don't know where I am or what happened, or—_

 

But just like that, Brendon _does _know what happened.

 

It slides right into his head, so obvious and impossible and unquestionably _true _that he actually feels a little lightheaded with it.

 

"It came true," he whispers, half-aware and not caring that he's speaking out loud. "It came fucking _true,_" and holy fucking shit, the implications of this are fucking terrifying.

 

"What came true?" Spencer demands, obviously worried. "What are you talking about?"

 

Brendon stares at him. Conflicting feelings are ricocheting all over the place inside him, and he sort of doesn't know which way is up. 

 

"We're best friends," he says, testing, but even as he says it, he already knows it's true. He _remembers, _remembers being five years old on the first day of kindergarten—that's weird, his family seems to have lived in Spencer's neighborhood in this version of reality—and being terrified of riding the school bus all by himself, since all of his brothers and sisters were old enough to ride their bikes to school. He remembers how there weren't any empty seats left on the whole bus, and he was just standing there staring at all the kids, trying to figure out where he should sit down, and the bus driver was snapping at him to hurry up and find a seat. He remembers the older girl he'd finally decided on, because she looked a little bit like his big sister, and the way she'd rolled her eyes and huffed when he stopped beside her seat, and how he'd hesitated in the aisle for just a second, until a tiny hand closed around his wrist from the seat behind him.

 

"Sit with me," tiny Spencer had told him bossily, and Brendon had gazed back at him with utter gratitude that had quickly turned to adoration. They'd been best friends ever since.

 

It...it didn't happen like that, not _really_. Brendon knows it didn't. But he remembers.

 

"...Yeeeah?" Spencer is saying now, brow furrowed in confusion and concern. "Also, I am a boy, and your name is Brendon, and two plus two equals four, and—"

 

Brendon beams, bright and happy all over his face, before he can stop himself. This may be bizarro-Spencer, but he's clearly still _Spencer, _through and through.

 

And he's Brendon's best friend.

 

This world is all kinds of fucked-up, and he still has no idea how this has happened, and he won't lie—he's got more than a little twinge of Ryan-related guilt going on in his stomach right now—but he can't deny that a fluttery-butterfly feeling of joy is growing somewhere in his chest and spreading outward.

 

Spencer is his best friend, and Brendon's birthday wish came true, and this?

 

This is pretty much the greatest moment of Brendon's life.

 

—

 

Brendon finds himself in the music room a few hours later, because sometimes really overwhelming emotions like confusion and fear and worry and _blinding fucking joy _can only really be expressed by making a whole fucking lot of noise.

 

He'd thought he was going to vibrate right out of his skin with it all, in those first hours after figuring the whole thing out, until he walked past the door at the back of the kitchen and caught sight of the room beyond. Another memory had overwhelmed him unexpectedly.

 

_("I don't know," Spencer says, a little doubtfully. "I thought we said we needed four bedrooms? If we want a guest room for when Jon's in town, we can't have an office here."_

 

_Brendon wrinkles his nose. "Who needs an office? Seriously, we have laptops."_

 

_"You would know why we need an office if you ever paid any of the bills," Spencer tells him, his expression long-suffering. "There is paperwork. It's a pain in the ass. And as classy as our filing system at the apartment is, I was kinda hoping for something a little more...conventional in a house."_

 

_"Whatever, Trapper Keepers will never not be awesome. Don't try to pretend you're too good for Velcro binders, Spencer. Snobbery does not suit you."_

 

_Spencer rolls his eyes, but Brendon knows he's secretly really fond of the newest one Brendon found for him. Seriously, a Punky Brewster Trapper Keeper. What's not to love? E-bay is fucking awesome._

 

_"The French doors at the back of the kitchen lead into a formal dining room," the realtor, Lisa, puts in uncertainly, looking half-horrified and half-amused by this turn in the conversation. "It's actually a really spacious room, and it could be converted into an office pretty easily. If you don't mind giving up the formal dining room, that is."_

 

_It's been clear since the beginning that she doesn't quite know what to make of two twenty-year-old boys buying a house together, and has probably drawn all kinds of the wrong conclusions about the two of them, but she doesn't seem to object to any of the conclusions she's leaping to, so they haven't really bothered themselves about explaining it to her. She is now eyeing their girl jeans with a faintly-wrinkled brow, as if she's trying to figure out whether they signal an increase or a decrease in the likelihood of future dinner parties._

 

_Brendon takes pity on her. "We don't really need a dining room," he says.  "Can we see it?"_

 

_They're still on the second floor looking at bedrooms at the moment, so Lisa leads the way back down the stairs and through the kitchen—_

 

_"I like the kitchen," Brendon whispers to Spencer for roughly the seventh time since he laid eyes on it._

 

_—and up to the French doors. Brendon had noticed them before, but hadn't really paid attention. They have white linen curtains covering the glass, and Brendon had assumed they led outside, but as Lisa swings them open, they turn out to reveal a kind of ridiculously-huge room with polished wood floors and a tacky chandelier hanging down in the middle._

 

_"This is the dining room," she says unnecessarily, stepping inside, and her voice rings out, loud in the open space. Brendon and Spencer both go immediately still, identical blissed-out expressions coming over their faces._

_  
The acoustics in this room are fucking awesome._

 

_Brendon looks at Spencer, grinning. There's no way they're turning this into an office, and they both know it.  "Trapper Keepers, Spencer," he says enticingly. "Admit it, dude, they're fucking cool."_

 

_Spencer looks at the dining room again, and sighs.   "How do we make an offer?") _

 

Brendon thinks this music room is every bit as good as his old one, which is saying something, because he has always been pretty crazy about his music room. He plays and plays, moving from the drum kit over to guitar, fucking around with the cello for awhile, and eventually ends up at the piano, where he always does.

 

Spencer wanders in at some point, and Brendon doesn't even notice until he says, "Seriously, Bren, are you okay?"

  
Brendon glances up, startled, and stills his fingers on the keys. "I'm fine," he says, feeling simultaneously giddy because Spencer just called him _Bren, _and stupid for feeling giddy because Spencer just called him Bren. He's all the fuck over the place today, but he decides that's probably allowed when you manage to somehow wish yourself into an alternate universe.

 

Spencer waves a hand at the piano. "You just...you've been weird all morning, and now you're playing like a crackhead with ADD, so—"

 

Brendon turns, blinking at the keys beneath his fingers. Yeah, he's been kind of chaotic today, both musically and emotionally, but _crackhead with ADD_ seems unnecessarily harsh. 

 

"Do you ever wake up and think, _I can't believe this is actually my life?_" he blurts out, before he can stop himself.

 

Spencer drops onto the bench next to him and grins. "All the time. Usually it isn't in a freak-out way, though. You're twenty-two years old, which you have been for less than twenty-four hours by the way, so this better not be a mid-life crisis or I will kill you in your sleep, I swear to God."

 

"You'll understand someday when _you _turn twenty-two," Brendon manages to say with a straight face. "I know it seems a long way off now, but these glory days of your youth won't last forever—"

 

Spencer shoves his shoulder, rolling his eyes to high heaven. 

 

Brendon isn't sure what makes him say it. It's stupid, and it makes him _sound _stupid, and it's kind of a shame that he's been Spencer's best friend for all of maybe five or six hours, max, and he's already making a total tool of himself, but whatever. He can't help himself.

 

"Hey, Spence?" he says, and his voice is quieter than usual, tentative. Spencer's eyes are very blue and sort of intense as he straightens up a bit in reaction to that tone, and gives Brendon his full attention. "Do you...have I been a good friend? I mean, to you? Are you—_happy, _with me?"

 

Spencer's expression undergoes a series of lightning-quick, almost-imperceptible changes, finally settling on something very, very still and kind of blank but still somehow intent and searching. "Bren?" he asks softly.

 

Brendon's hands drop into his lap and twist around each other anxiously. "I just. Like. Do you ever—I don't know—wish things were different? That...that I wasn't your best friend?"

 

Spencer, weirdly, doesn't seem to be breathing all of a sudden, and there's this one incomprehensible moment where Brendon would _swear _Spencer's eyes flicker down to his _mouth, _which sends a completely unexpected thrill straight down his spine and into his toes, but it's just a flicker, and he can't be sure, and really, this is _Spencer, _and he pretty much has to have misread that, right? Spencer is _straight._

 

"It's okay if you do," he says earnestly, trying to shake all thoughts of Spencer and Brendon and _mouths _out of his head. "You can tell me. I don't—I know I'm not, like, the easiest person to be friends with, and I'm kind of a pain in the ass a lot of the time, and I'm way too hyper, and—"

 

Somewhere in the middle of that speech, another subtle shift happens in Spencer's expression; the searching look disappears, and his shoulders drop slightly, and his features smooth themselves into a flat neutral mask for a second or two before resuming a more natural look.

 

"You're an idiot," Spencer tells him, and then he's smiling and it's like all the weirdness didn't even happen. "_Yes, _Brendon, I am happy to be your best friend. You're pretty much the best thing that ever happened to me, and now that we have shared this very special little moment together, do you think maybe you could, like, surgically separate yourself from your instruments long enough to shower or some shit? We have to leave in less than half an hour."

 

Brendon dimly understands that something just happened, but he doesn't know what, and now he has a whole new situation to deal with, because he is apparently expected to be somewhere and he has no idea where.

 

"Yeah, okay," is all he says. It's his turn to give Spencer a searching look, but Spencer just excuses himself to go take a shower of his own, and Brendon can't pursue the mystery any further. He has to shower, and dress, and hopefully chase down a couple of memories in hopes of having some vague clue what the fuck is going on around him tonight.

 

He sighs as he heads for the stairs. His birthday wish has literally somehow handed him the world. He's not sure why he suddenly feels like he's already lost something important.

 

—

 

 

By the time he's showered and dressed, he's managed to capture enough memories to make some sense of his plans for the evening, but in the process, has uncovered a few other details about his new life that he's not sure how to feel about yet.

 

It turns out that tonight's plans include a family birthday dinner for Brendon. A _Smith _family birthday dinner. They have one for Brendon every year, just like they do for all their other children.

  
They do it because Brendon's own family hasn't spoken so much as a word to him since he was sixteen years old.

 

In Brendon's own reality, his relationship with his family is strained at best, he knows that, but the idea that in this world they've just cut him off completely....

 

It hurts. 

 

It hurts more than Brendon would really have expected. Most of all, it hurts because Brendon understands why things turned out this way, and even in his own world, this would have been inevitable eventually. He'd wanted to believe that it wouldn't come to this, that his family would never _let _it come to this—but that was only ever wishful thinking, apparently, and now Brendon has proof.

 

_("You don't mean it," his mother says, angry and tearful. "It's wrong, Brendon. It's wrong. Look at what you're turning into! I don't recognize you anymore! You've lost sight of God, and now...and now this—!! It isn't true!"_

 

_"I don't believe in God," Brendon tells her, again, his voice shaking and his eyes filled with tears that are half anger and half desolation. "And if he's real, then he made me this way! This isn't a choice I'm making, Mom! This is who I am!"_

 

_Next to Brendon, a stoic and pale Spencer reaches out and grabs his hand, twisting their fingers together in a gesture of support. Brendon's mom looks at their tangled fingers with open horror and disgust._

 

_"Did you do this?" she demands of Spencer through her tears. "Did you put these ideas in his head?"_

 

_Spencer sets his jaw and glares at her fiercely, but keeps his mouth shut, just like he'd promised Brendon he would. His grip on Brendon's hand tightens to the point of pain, and Brendon has never been so grateful for anything in his life._

 

_It doesn't take long after that. Brendon is handed an ultimatum, and he makes his choice without turning back. On their way out the door, hands full of bags containing everything Brendon owned in the world, Spencer turns to face Brendon's parents one final time._

 

_"He's your son," he says, his voice tight and strained with the weight of everything he isn't saying._

_  
Brendon's mom turns her face away and weeps into her hands. His father just sits silent and white-faced, staring at the wall._

_  
Brendon lets Spencer shepherd him out the door, and doesn't fall apart until they're safely in the car and driving away. _

 

_"I don't have anywhere to go," he says faintly, turning bleak eyes to Spencer. He feels...numb. Numb and helpless and so, so tired. Nothing in the whole world makes sense anymore._

 

_Spencer doesn't say a word, just drives until they reach his house. He pulls Brendon physically out of the car and pushes him through the front door, his expression fierce and jaw clenched._

 

_"Mom. Dad. Brendon's moving in," he says._

_  
Spencer's parents look up from their movie, and go very, very still. "Brendon?" Ginger asks softly._

 

_"N-no," Brendon stammers, shaking his head in denial. The numbness is wearing off fast, and terror is setting in. "No, I'm not—I'll find somewhere else, you don't have to—I'll figure something out."_

 

_Ginger is up off the couch in a flash, pulling Brendon into a comforting, familiar, lavender-scented embrace. "Don't be an idiot," she scolds gently, sounding so much like her son that Brendon actually manages a small, shaky laugh through his tears. "You are staying here, and that's final."_

_  
Brendon turns to look at Spencer, who just gazes back at him with grim satisfaction, and goes out to start collecting Brendon's things from the car.)_

 

Brendon tries hard not to think too much about his family after that. He doesn't think he really wants to remember anything else.

 

There are other memories that fill in the rest of the story: Brendon had lived with the Smiths until just after Maryland, when he and Spencer had moved out together, into a tiny two-bedroom place they barely even bothered to _attempt _to furnish, since the band was getting ready to start touring, and they didn't need anything fancy, just a place to call home when they happened to be in town. They've been roommates ever since, going in together to buy their house when Spencer decided he was sick of not being able to play the drums in their apartment. 

 

One thing about Brendon's memories that does bother him is the notable lack of Ryan in most of them. It isn't that he _has _no memories of Ryan—he has several, he and Spencer have apparently known Ryan since the same time that Spencer and Ryan met in the real world, and the three of them have pretty much always been friendly. Plus, obviously, he's in the band, so they literally live with him on the bus for a huge part of the year. It's just that—well.

 

This reality's Ryan is a lot quieter, a lot more withdrawn. He's not shy, exactly, just lives inside his own head a lot more even than the Ryan Brendon is familiar with. Brendon can find him if he looks hard, in memories of childhood birthday parties and band practices and bus days on tour. All of those memories would seem to indicate that they have a perfectly comfortable friendship with him that just sort of...never really deepened very far. Not even as far as Brendon'_s _friendships with his bandmates had, back in his own reality.

 

His stomach squirms sort of sickly at the thought. It's the first time he's really allowed himself to acknowledge that he's _taken _something by being here. Something that should rightfully be Ryan's, something that was _meant _to be Ryan's, and Ryan's life has been definitely been an emptier, lonelier place because of it.

  
The problem is, Brendon doesn't know what to do about it. He _wished _for this, yes—he didn't _ask _for it. Who the fuck thinks birthday wishes really come true, anyway? He wouldn't know how to put things back the way they were, even if he tried, and truthfully, with Spencer beaming at him from the driver's seat of the car, mocking Brendon shamelessly for reverting to the bright red glasses he'd found in a drawer of his nightstand while he was getting ready, it's hard to really wish that he was anywhere else.

 

He'll fix it, though. _That _much, he can do for sure. Ryan won't know what hit him, Brendon promises himself. He'll have two of the best friends in the entire world, starting now, and he'll never be lonely again.

  
Brendon, maybe better than anybody, knows that it won't be enough, not really. It won't make up for a lifetime of loneliness that's already happened. But it's the best Brendon can do, he can't put things back so he just has to move forward.

 

As he bounds through the front door of the Smith household a few minutes later to the sounds of a really off-key family rendition of "Happy Birthday To You," and looks up to find Spencer singing along even as he rolls his eyes and smirks at Brendon, he can't help feeling a little bit _glad _of it. Not glad that his wish has hurt Ryan—not at all. Brendon hates hurting people more than he hates anything else in the world, including being lonely and feeling left out and pining after other people's best friends. He would _never _have willingly traded one for the other.

 

But since it _did _come true, even though he wouldn't really have asked for it _really—_since it happened, it's okay to...well, _like _it. Right? Not the hurting-Ryan part, but the part where Spencer sort of looks at Brendon like he's the most important person in the room, and Brendon can't quite help the way it lights him up inside? That part is okay, right?

  
Brendon grabs Ginger in a giant bear hug, twirling her off around the room just to hear her call him an idiot and try not to giggle like a teenage girl about it. It's kind of awesome.

 

—

 

Brendon wakes up to the sound of someone singing in the shower. For a second, he wonders if he just dreamed the last couple of days and has somehow been teleported to Shane and Regan's, because Shane's the only one among his friends who would sing Disney tracks at the top of his lungs at ass o'clock in the morning. (Jon might hum a verse or two, but he's actually partial to Bob Dylan in the shower. Brendon doesn't pretend to understand it.) 

But, no. He's clearly still in the…well, it really _might _be a dream, honestly, he still hasn't figured out all the details, really—but if it is one, he's definitely still having it.

He can't quite find it in himself to be sorry about that.

He crawls out of bed and walks down the hallway, curiosity mounting as he gets closer to the bathroom. The voice is familiar, but Brendon still can't place it until he's pushing the door open, and then suddenly it registers. 

“Dude, you're missing your cue.” 

Brendon shakes his head and looks up, staring stupidly at Spencer, who is pulling the shower door to the side, reaching for a towel. 

“Um...” 

It's the best he can do. The remaining 99.9% of his brain has abruptly shut down any activity that is not _staring like a complete idiot_, and wow, he really needs to snap out of that, but... _holy shit._

This is _Spencer._ 

Spencer, singing cheerfully at the top of his lungs in the shower. Spencer, standing casually naked, grinning at Brendon like it's no big deal, like Brendon can't see _everything, _like he isn't the _hottest thing Brendon has ever even seen, oh my god, snap out of it, Brendon, Jesus Christ._

Brendon swallows. 

 

“Brendon? Hello? Earth to Brendon?”

 

"Yes," he blurts, blinking. "I'm here. I mean—" He winces, because what the fuck. "Sorry. I'm...tired." He drags his eyes up to Spencer's face, belatedly realizing he is, like, pretty openly ogling his best friend's naked body.

 

Spencer steps easily out of the shower, apparently unconcerned by the way his entire body brushes up against Brendon for a second in the cramped space. 

 

His entire wet, _naked _body.

  
Brendon stumbles backward, his mouth dry, and feels blindly behind himself for the open door. "Cof—uh. Coffee," he mumbles stupidly.

 

Spencer catches his eye in the mirror, rubbing the towel over his hair and peering at Brendon from underneath it, and there's something sort of hyper-alert and almost knowing in his expression for an instant before it transforms into a positively blinding grin. Brendon is temporarily immobilized by the force of it.

 

"Yeah," Spencer says, turning away from the mirror to aim the full force of that grin directly at Brendon, instead. "Make me a cup?"

 

"What?" Brendon asks blankly. His head feels like empty space. He can't think with Spencer smiling at him like that, and _still naked, _Jesus. 

 

If anything, Spencer's beaming smile actually intensifies. "Coffee."

 

Oh, right. "Right," Brendon says, and takes another fumbling backwards step when Spencer inches a little closer. "Right. Coffee. I'm—uh, make some..."

 

Discretion is totally the better part of valor. Or something.

  
Brendon flees.

 

Fuck, this is _not good._

 

—

 

The day does not get better from there.

 

Spencer has been in a positively _sparkling _mood ever since the Shower Incident this morning, but unfortunately, Brendon cannot say the same. He's crabby and irritable, which is unusual for him, but he can't help feeling justified.

  
As if it isn't bad enough that he's apparently become some kind of best-friend-ogling pervert, not to mention the painful, debilitating awkwardness that has him suddenly tripping all over his tongue around Spencer, he's also being forced to contend with a solo interview he isn't prepared for—with the fucking _Advocate, _no less, because apparently in this reality, Brendon recently publicly came out—and he's having a hard time not taking out his frustrated impatience on the interviewer.

 

"How much of an impact do you expect your sexuality to have on the band?" the guy is asking earnestly when Brendon finally snaps. 

 

"Oh, a huge impact, for sure," Brendon says blandly, his Sarcasm Defense kicking on automatically before he can censor himself. "We're gonna build the whole stage show around it on the next tour, you know.   A big gay circus, very cabaret, it's going to be great."

 

The interviewer seems nonplussed, blinking uncertainly down at his list of questions, and Spencer is snickering in the corner, and Brendon kind of feels bad, but mostly he feels abruptly and depressingly _alone._

 

He is the only person in this entire reality who remembers the big gay circus in question. Like everything else in Brendon's entire life, it never actually happened here. _Circus _had been Ryan and Spencer's brainchild, and this reality never had a Ryan-and-Spencer to think it up.

 

"O...kay..." the interviewer says hesitantly. "Well. I think that about covers it, so. Um. Thank you for meeting with us today?" He pauses, then says sincerely, "We all really admire your bravery, and honesty, and we want you to know how much we appreciate the example you're setting."

 

Now Brendon really does feel bad, as if he wasn't already feeling shitty enough, so he forces a smile and makes himself behave through the obligatory end-of-interview small talk until he and Spencer can finally take their leave.

 

“What's wrong?” Spencer asks as they walk out of the studio, and Brendon shrugs, because, really, there's no way he can explain it.

 

“Do you ever wish--” he starts, and cuts himself off, because that word—the "wish"-word—is growing to be something he can't bring himself to use.

 

“What?”

 

“I don't know. Like, that things were different? Like, have you ever had this feeling that you wanted something so, so bad, but that you _knew_ you couldn't have it? And just... I don't know.”

 

Spencer stops in his tracks. “Brendon...”

 

It sounds like a question, and whatever it is, Brendon doesn't think he can bear to answer right now. So he shakes his head, muttering a 'forget it' under his breath and pulls them forward, crossing another street. “Really, Spence, it's nothing. Let's... I don't know. Let's go shoe shopping or something.”

 

It's a tactic that has always worked before; Spencer tends to get ridiculously excited whenever he or Ryan or Jon gives in and agrees to indulge Spencer for an hour or two as he browses through shop after shop with a single-minded focus that would leave even Sarah Jessica Parker impressed.

 

What he's not expecting is for Spencer to roll his eyes and give _Brendon_ the long-suffering sigh the other three of them usually save for _Spencer_ on these occasions, before he smiles and wraps an arm around Brendon's waist, steering them towards the entrance of the mall.

 

Brendon follows, trying not to think about how warm Spencer's arm feels around him. Spencer says something about the summer collection just coming in for a label Brendon vaguely remembers the name of, mouth placed close—too close—to Brendon's ear as they squeeze through the doors of the first shop.

 

Brendon walks faster.

 

—

 

 

“Seriously, are you okay?”

 

Brendon looks up from the shelves he's been aimlessly browsing through for the past five minutes. Spencer is looking at him with a worried frown on his face, so Brendon quickly glances over the next shelf and grabs the first pair of shoes that really catches his eye. “Yeah, I'm fine. Just thinking. What do you think of these?”

 

“Brendon you _have_ those,” Spencer says, confusion clear in his voice. Brendon looks at the shoes in his hand (blue with a white pattern and sparkly laces—they're pretty badass) and searches his fake memory. Spencer is right. He does have these shoes here. In three different colors, apparently.

 

“I meant for _you_,” he covers hastily. Spencer looks at him as though Brendon's just grown an extra head.

 

“You told me just last week that I couldn't get these,” he says exasperatedly. “Because they made my feet look 'weirdly shaped'. Really, what the fuck is up?”

 

Brendon opens his mouth to contradict him, then pauses and hunts through his fake memory until he remembers that conversation. Among others, Christ.  It looks like, thanks to Spencer's heavy influence during his formative years, the Brendon he's supposed to be right now has apparently developed a shoe fetish the way some people develop a contact high. This Brendon _knows_ things about shoes—has a near encyclopedic knowledge of Converse and Supras and limited edition Nikes, and god knows what else—but knowing that doesn't give Brendon immediate and instinctual _access_ to that information, so basically, he's kind of fucked.

 

He looks up helplessly at Spencer, blurting out the first thing that enters his mind.

 

“They, uh, match your eyes.”

 

It's official.  This shiny new world has turned Brendon insane, because what the _actual fuck?_  Brendon feels his whole face flush, and really, who can blame it when Brendon is being a complete _moron_, and he'll just take a quick painless death to go, right about now, please.

 

Spencer stares at him, and then he grins, slow and happy and maybe a little pink-cheeked, himself, and then they just stand there _looking _at each other like total goofballs until Spencer ducks his head, bites his lower lip, and his whole expression kind of softens.

 

“You're such a loser.”

 

Brendon doesn't sag in relief. At least not much. He's totally standing straight, cool and collected.

 

“Shut up.”

 

Spencer smiles, and Brendon's knees do their funny wobbling thing again. “Wanna hit the food court?”

 

Brendon nods. Spencer is probably convinced his best friend is a nutcase, but Brendon can hardly imagine it's the first time he's thought so over the years, so whatever.

 

They leave the shop together, side by side. And if their hands brush a little on the way out, it's completely accidental.

 

—


	3. You would think my love was really something good

_3._

_you would think my love was really something good_

 

 

 

A month passes.

 

Brendon settles into his new life pretty comfortably. This new world...it doesn't exactly feel like _home _yet, and maybe in a lot of ways it never really will; Brendon can "remember" what his life has always been like, here, but the memories don't feel like _him, _don't feel like they really belong to him. There's a sense of disconnection associated with them, like he's remembering someone else's life, which...he is, and Brendon's own memories—the experiences that made him who he is—aren't shared by anyone here at all, and that's a lonely feeling.

 

But it's not like he isn't _happy._

 

His life here, with Spencer, is busy and fun. Brendon has had to learn to stop expecting Spencer to be exactly the same, because he just _isn't_, but he's pretty damn close and also totally awesome in his own right. Brendon misses his own Spencer—sometimes he misses him so much it hurts—but _this _Spencer is a warm, funny, constant presence, effortlessly filling the aching hole in Brendon's life that had led him to make such a drastic wish to begin with, and that's a pretty amazing feeling.

 

There just happen to be new holes, that's all. Holes shaped like Spencer—like _Brendon's _Spencer, and like Brendon's family, and like...

 

Ryan.

 

God. _Ryan._ Brendon can't even look at him without twisting up anxiously inside, and his plans to woo Ryan into the comforting bosom of best-friendship have thus far met with abject failure.

 

Mostly, Ryan just seems confused. He's friendly and comfortable enough with all of them, funny in his dryly sarcastic way, and doesn't seem to know quite what to do with Brendon's sudden, focused attention. It's almost counter-productive—he tends to withdraw when Brendon gets too..._Brendony _around him, and then he becomes even quieter than before, re-establishing the aura of comfortable distance he seems to have built around himself.

  
It's frustrating, but Brendon won't give up.

 

Jon—blessedly unchanged and still wonderfully _Jon, _for all that he remembers a different world than Brendon does_—_had finally flown in a week after Brendon had first entered the wish-world, and writing for the third album is now underway. 

 

Today, everyone is gathered in the music room, comparing half-finished melodies and collections of Ryan's lyrics, fiddling around to see what might fit. 

 

And this...this is maybe one of the biggest differences of all, one of the hardest things for Brendon to adjust to.

 

The _music._

 

Ryan is still the primary lyricist for the band here, but—well. His life has been a very different one. _Fever _was apparently identical in both worlds, but in this one, their second album hadn't been _Pretty. Odd. _at all. Mellow nature-metaphor Ryan had apparently never really come into being here—instead, _Follow You Down_ had been born: an album full of _Fever-_style lyrics, all sharp corners and clever turns of phrase. The number one single from the album, also called _Follow You Down, _is a lyrically twisted, painful thing about the death of Ryan's father. (Strangely, this Ryan is a lot more deferential than the one Brendon is familiar with, and tends to just hand over the lyrics and then go along with the rest of them when it comes time to turn them into a song. As a result, _Follow'_s gritty lyrics are set to a lighthearted, catchy, almost lilting melody Brendon and Spencer came up with together, which makes the angry, bitter words sound that much more fucked up. Brendon had felt almost nauseous with the disconnect the first time he listened to it, but people evidently like it—the song had shot straight to the top of the charts and stayed there practically forever, and the album had gone double-platinum almost at the speed of light. Brendon still doesn't like the fucking song.)

 

They're just sitting around at the moment, working on stuff for the new album. It's flowing better now than it did in the first few sessions, when Brendon was still desperately trying to remember things he was supposed to know, and keep himself from slipping up and starting to hum their real songs—_(other_ songs, not _real _ones. Brendon has to get used to that, has to start remembering that _these _are the real songs now)—under his breath, or idly strumming through them on his guitar out of habit.

 

They take a break, and Spencer goes to get a handful of beers from the fridge. When he gets back, he's holding a magazine in his right hand.

 

“Hey, look what came in the mail,” he says, dropping the magazine in Ryan's lap before handing out the beer. It's a new issue of _The Advocate,_ proclaiming a 'special feature with rockstar Brendon Urie' on pages 7-10.

 

Brendon opens his beer and takes a swallow, not sure if he wants to read the article or not. There's always something about interviews that twists his stomach a little. Something that's misquoted or ignored—something about seeing himself pressed into the mold the interviewer was after even before Brendon came into the room that just makes him feel uncomfortable. It's not bad, exactly. He's far too used to it for it to actually hurt. Used to playing the part people want him to play. He's a showman, and he's good at it. It still stings a little.

 

Ryan skips around the interview, reading aloud, ignoring most of the boring bio questions and focusing mostly on the embarrassing stuff, because even bizarro-world Ryan, as painfully different as he is, is still _Ryan._

 

Brendon really fucking misses _his _Ryan, though.

 

“So where do you see yourself in ten years, in terms of your career and personal life?” Ryan reads.

 

“President of the United States?” Jon supplies solemnly. “Fighting pollution and ugly footwear.”

 

“Ugly fashion of all kinds,” Brendon tells him earnestly. "My administration is opposed to discrimination." 

 

Jon snorts, and Ryan returns his attention to the magazine. “To be honest with you, I don't know,” he reads. “I have no idea where I'll be. In terms of career, you know, I guess I just want to be where I am now, making music for a living with my best friends.”

 

There is a collective round of 'aw' at this.  Brendon rolls his eyes and flips them all off.

 

“As for my personal life,” Ryan continues. “I guess I'm hoping to have found The One, you know?  I'm not very good at casual, really. I always just kind of wanted to find the right person and, like. Settle down, I guess. Have the picket fence, lazy Saturdays in bed, fights over who should do the dishes—all that stuff. Not very rockstar, but that's the dream. Then again, you never really know. Maybe that never happens and in ten years, I'm all alone and in a very committed relationship with a dozen cats, all named after Disney characters. Anything can happen, right?”

 

There's an odd pause at that. Ryan is looking at Brendon a little strangely, and Spencer is suddenly very still in his seat. Brendon glances at him questioningly, but Spencer doesn't seem to notice. He's too busy staring intently at his beer.

 

“Awesome,” Jon says easily, melting the sudden tension with a broad grin. “Cat life is totally worth embracing, dude. It's even better than the Presidency. Or at least there are less people out to kill you.”

 

“I don't know,” Spencer says wryly. “This is Brendon we're talking about. He'll have a dozen hyperactive cats with ADD, and he will teach them to do _tricks_, and a lot of people have guns at home in this country.”

 

Brendon makes a face at Spencer, and Jon laughs, and Ryan tosses the interview casually aside without bothering to read any more, which Brendon appreciates. Everything goes pretty much back to normal, or what passes for normal around here, at least, and it would be like the entire weird moment never happened if it weren’t for the unreadable looks Spencer keeps shooting him.

  
Brendon sighs to himself, wondering if a time will ever come when he will have been here long enough to be able to _really _read Spencer, the way that Spencer seems able to read him. The way that the “real” Ryan and Spencer are able to read each other.

 

He waits for Spencer to have to get back up to make another beer run to the kitchen, and this time he follows, poking Spencer lightly in the side.

 

“What’s with you today, anyway?”

 

Spencer smacks his hand away. “Nothing,” he says, and he actually manages a credibly-confused expression, but while Brendon may not be a fully-qualified mind-melder yet, he’s not exactly _new _to Spencer, either.

 

“You got weird about the interview,” he says bluntly. “Which is even weirder because you were totally there when I did that interview. So not only do I not know what made you get weird just now, I also can’t figure out why whatever-it-was _didn’t _make you get weird the first time around, and you _know _how much I hate not knowing stuff, Spencer Smith.” He makes a stern face. “Spill your guts.”

 

Spencer frowns. “I wasn’t there when you answered that question,” he says. “That must have been when I was signing shit for the receptionist and all her friends, or whatever.” He hesitates, and then says, too-lightly, “You suck for even thinking you could end up alone in ten years with a bunch of cats, dickface.”

 

Brendon opens his mouth, then pauses. Spencer seems genuinely upset about this, and Brendon isn’t sure if he’s supposed to make a joke and lighten the mood, or like, have some kind of Very Special Bonding Moment with Spencer where they vow to grow old and grumpy on the front porches of next-door houses together, or what. 

 

In the end, he goes with something halfway between the two.

 

“Hey, I can't just count on you to be around forever, you know,” he says lightly. “You're bound to meet some sweet young thing someday and settle down somewhere with, like, a real office and his-and-hers shoe fetishes, and then where will I be?”

 

Spencer looks up, then, and Brendon knows there's something he's missing, knows that the intense expression on Spencer's face is a signal of something much bigger than he understands right now, but nothing—_nothing_—could possibly have prepared him for being pushed up against the kitchen counter without a word of warning, Spencer pressing into him with parted lips and heavy breaths, and—

 

_????_, goes Brendon's brain, and then Spencer's eyes lock onto his mouth, and a solid wall of sudden, shocking arousal slams into Brendon with the force of a freight train.

 

"_Sp_—_Spencer...?"_ he manages to breathe, shaky and bewildered and maybe a little afraid. He doesn't understand what's happening right now, hasn't even let himself _think _about anything like this, not even in the face of all the new and complicated feelings he's been struggling with all month.

 

He just...it's _Spencer._ How can this even be happening?

 

"How could you not know?" Spencer mumbles, breath hot over Brendon's lips, one hand sliding up to tangle in his hair.

 

_Know **what?** _Brendon wants to ask, except he can't quite find the words to form the thought. And then thought deserts him entirely, because Spencer's mouth is closing over his, and every cell in his body is lighting up like a sparkler, and oh, god, Spencer's _mouth, _fuck, Brendon can't breathe and doesn't want to and doesn't care anymore how this happened or what Spencer is thinking, he just wants this moment to _never, ever end._

 

The sound of a throat clearing behind them makes Brendon jerk away, but Spencer doesn't let him get far. He keeps Brendon tight to his side with an arm around his waist as they turn to face their friends. Brendon's face must be glowing like hot coals, but he's still way too overwhelmed to really care about the embarrassment.

 

"We're gonna leave you two alone," Ryan says drolly, quirking a small smile. "The writing will wait, and this...looks like maybe it won't." He's eyeing Spencer with mild amusement, like he understands something Brendon still doesn't, and Brendon's brain is barely working at all right now, but he's still aware enough to register the familiarity of that, to feel the quick flutter of longing it sparks in his chest.

 

"Far be it from us to interfere with...anything," Jon puts in cheerfully with a ridiculous eyebrow-waggle. He's sort of beaming at Brendon and Spencer, looking genuinely delighted for them both. "Ryan says I can crash on his couch tonight, so...y'know...you guys can do—uh. Whatever."

 

He winks outrageously, and the hot coals in Brendon's face burst into flame.

 

Spencer, though, just tugs Brendon impossibly closer, and says, "Yeah, thanks, yeah," in this hoarse, half-wrecked voice that sort of makes Brendon's knees feel weak.

 

Spencer is on him again before the door has even closed behind Ryan and Jon, and Brendon is trying so desperately to _think, _but Spencer is _everywhere—_mouth and hands and hot, wet breath; a warm thigh pushing its way between Brendon's legs, sharp hips pushing him into the counter, fingers tangling in his hair and tilting his head back for Spencer's frantic kisses. Brendon is surrounded by him, drowning in it, and he wants—he wants—

 

He _wants, _and Spencer wants too, and Brendon can't do anything but give himself up to it, just open his mouth and let himself be taken.

 

"I—_Spencer, _fuck, I—" he finally manages, dazed and gasping as Spencer closes his teeth around Brendon's earlobe and tugs lightly. "...I thought—"

 

The rest of the thought dissolves in a slow grind of Spencer's hips against his, and Brendon's entire body shivers and goes lax in Spencer's arms.

 

"You thought...?" Spencer mumbles, panting against Brendon's ear. "God. _Brendon."_

 

Brendon drags in a breath, unable to stop his own hips from rolling, dragging his cock against Spencer's thigh. His thoughts white out again for a moment.

 

"I thought you were..._oh..._straight," he finally pushes out, turning his face into Spencer's neck and opening his mouth against the hot skin behind Spencer's ear.

 

Spencer groans, sliding his hands down Brendon's back and boldly palming his ass. Brendon's hips buck helplessly, and he whimpers.

 

"You're...an idiot," Spencer pants, hot against Brendon's ear. "What—did you think we were doing? All the...flirting, all the _looking._ I was just—waiting for you, I—I thought you were just...trying not to rush it, I didn't know you were _stupid._ It's always been you, Bren. How could it ever have been anyone else?"

  
Brendon tears his mouth away, pulling back to stare with wide, shocked eyes at Spencer’s face. Spencer nips at the corner of his mouth, tugging him closer again, and whispers, "Bed. Bed, Brendon. Now."

 

And oh, god, this is probably so wrong—Spencer wouldn’t be saying these things, wouldn’t be doing these things if it weren’t for the wish, if Brendon hadn’t wished them into this place, it’s isn’t…none of it’s _real—_but it’s here, and Brendon can have it, and it's Spencer—it's _Spencer—_and how can he walk away from this? It's more than he'd ever even known to wish for, and it's just being _given _to him anyway, and Brendon—

 

He can't not take it.

 

He lets himself be dragged upstairs, into Spencer's bedroom, lets the world blur out around him and get lost in the feel of Spencer's hands on his skin, of clothes being pulled free and tossed to the floor around them, of the cool, scratchy comforter sliding under his back and miles of hot skin stretching out on top of him. 

 

And it doesn’t even matter, Brendon doesn’t even care that it’s not real, not if it means he gets to have _this_—long, slow, lazy-hot kisses, all curling tongues and heated breaths and teasing brushes of lips; blinding flashes of smile and sweet low moans in an achingly familiar voice, pressed into Brendon's burning skin; blown-black pupils in blue, blue eyes, soft and unfocused, and _SpencerSpencerSpencer _all around him.

 

And if there are moments when Spencer's narrow planes and sharp angles feel a little bit wrong under his hands, as if his fingers are searching for a broader frame and softer edges, he doesn't quite know what to think about that, so he just doesn't let himself think about it at all. And if he slides his open mouth along the curve of Spencer's jaw and the smooth skin there makes him ache for a phantom beard tickling his lips, he doesn't let himself think about that, either.

 

This _is_ Spencer. It's enough. It's more than enough.

 

Slow kisses and drawn-out touches can only last so long, and Brendon is half out of his mind by the time they're finally moving together in a frantic rhythm of skin on skin and cock on cock, legs and fingers and tongues entangled, and Spencer throws his head back and groans Brendon's name as he comes, and he's so fucking beautiful that Brendon can't breathe as he follows him over the edge.

 

_I love you, _he thinks, to _both _Spencers, and the epiphany breaks over him like a rain of hot sparks against his skin, bright and bittersweet amidst the rush of pleasure.

 

When he comes back to himself, Spencer is gazing at him with so much awe that it almost hurts inside, a little, to see it. He smiles at Brendon, that brilliant fucking grin that lights up the room like a fucking sunrise, and Brendon can't help the smile spreading over his own face.

 

"It's always been you, too," he whispers. And maybe he hadn't always consciously known it, and maybe he's only known _this_ Spencer for a month, but that doesn’t make it any less true.

 

It's easy to let the remaining pangs of wistfulness get lost in Spencer's kiss.

 

—

 

Brendon wakes up to the feeling of a warm, open mouth dragging lazily across the back of his neck, a strong arm locked across his waist, long fingers tracing aimless, tantalizing patterns low on his belly.

 

Oh. 

 

_Spencer._

 

Last night comes rushing back in a blur of sound and color, and Brendon arches back, sucking in a shuddery breath as Spencer flattens his hand, bites down at the juncture of shoulder and neck, and pushes his thigh forward to slide between Brendon’s, all at once.

 

“Thank god,” he murmurs, dragging his mouth up to Brendon’s ear. His voice is still morning-rough, and so fucking hot. “I’ve been awake forever, I thought you were going to sleep all day.” He bites down again, lightly, this time on Brendon’s earlobe. “I’m not sure I could have waited much longer.”

 

He pushes his hips forward, letting Brendon feel the hot, hard length of his cock, and Brendon can’t quite help the low, ragged sound he makes in response. He reaches back, sliding his hand over Spencer’s bare thigh and gripping tightly, rocking back into the slow, lazy roll of Spencer’s hips.

 

"Spencer," he whispers. His voice is shaky with wonder. It still feels unreal—it's too incredible, too perfect, too _much, _like he can't quite wrap his head around it.

 

"Mmm," Spencer tells him, and opens his mouth against Brendon's neck again, sliding his hand lower to wrap around Brendon's cock as he thrusts and slides against him. "Brendon. Bren. I want to fuck you, God, please tell me I can. I want—"

 

Brendon shudders, his entire body flushing hot and tight, and makes a helpless, inarticulate sound. "_Yeah,_" he finally forces out, dizzy and breathless with want. "Yeah, yes, _Spencer, _fuck..."

 

Spencer's fingers twitch and tighten around Brendon, his hips stuttering forward. "You have to help me," he grits out against the skin behind Brendon's ear. "I've never—I don't know what to do, you have to tell me, you have to help.  I don't want to hurt you."

 

Brendon can barely breathe. He's never been this hard, _never, _he's shaking and overwhelmed and already nearly-there and they haven't even started yet, not really. He pushes his face into the pillow, dragging in one unsteady breath and then another, trying desperately to bring himself under control. 

 

"Lube," he finally manages, weakly. "F-Fingers. Do you...have...?"

 

Spencer lets go, turning away to fumble blindly in the drawer beside his bed, and Brendon barely has time to register the loss before he's back, wrapping himself right back around Brendon's body and dropping an unopened bottle of lube onto the bed in front of them. 

 

Brendon fumbles for it as Spencer's hand wraps tight around his cock again, stroking fast and hot like he can't quite help himself. Brendon is frankly not certain they're going to get as far as fucking before this is all over—not the way he feels right now, not the way Spencer's hips keep rolling in a helpless rhythm against his ass.

 

He spills some of the lube trying to peel off the stupid seal, and gets his hands so covered in the stuff that he can barely screw the cap back on at all, and he doesn't care, not about any of it.

 

"S-Stop," he mumbles, tossing the lube back onto the bed and shakily tugging at Spencer's wrist with slippery fingers. "Stop, I won't last, you can't—" He breaks off, rolls away until he's face-down on the bed, the puddle of lube wet and sticky beneath his chest. He twists until he can see Spencer's face, suddenly feeling awkward now that the technical mechanics have to come into play.

 

But Spencer is staring at him with so much heat and intensity that there's no room left for shyness, so Brendon just wriggles until he can get his knees under him and tries not to let himself think about how he must look.

 

"You—fingers," he says. Not eloquent, but whatever. "To stretch me, and get me wet. I..." He pauses, blushing hotly and suddenly uncertain, but forces himself ahead. "I can show you. This time. If—if you want me to."

 

Spencer's breath stutters, and his mouth falls open, his eyes actually glazing over a little just at the words alone, and Brendon's stomach squirms and flutters at the same time, and his skin is flushed and scratchy and his cock is twitching, and he doesn't even know anymore where the embarrassment ends and the arousal begins. It's overwhelming as fuck, and almost too much to handle—Brendon doesn't exactly have acres of experience, himself, okay—but it's _Spencer, _and there is no one in this or any other world he could possibly ever trust as much as he trusts Spencer, so he just squeezes his eyes shut tight and reaches down to slide the first finger inside himself.

 

"_Fuck," _Spencer whispers. "Fuck. So hot, Brendon, Jesus."

 

And then he's there, dropping fervent, uncertain kisses all over the skin of Brendon's back, kneeling up so he can see and running his hands all over Brendon's body in aimless patterns that are as much nervousness as reassurance. 

 

Brendon adds a second finger, and after a bit goes for a third, because he's really only done this a few times and he doesn't want to ruin this moment for Spencer by wincing or making pained noises. 

 

Spencer keeps kissing his spine, keeps touching him, reaching curious fingers to brush over the place where Brendon's own fingers are stretching himself open, and he's talking a little, sometimes, half-under his breath like he doesn't even know he's doing it, but Brendon can hear.

 

"God. God, yeah....holy shit, so fucking hot...Brendon, Brendon, can't believe..."

 

When Brendon is sure he's as ready as he can be, he turns his face against the pillow again and murmurs, "Spence. Condom. Condom now, okay?" and Spencer's fingers still against his skin, his breath going ragged and rough for a second.

 

"Yeah," he says finally, hoarsely, and then he's fumbling in the nightstand again, and Brendon doesn't move to look but he can hear the sounds of a wrapper being torn open, a shaky sucked-in breath as Spencer rolls the condom on.

 

Then Spencer is back, kneeling behind him, and Brendon reaches back with one still-slick hand to run it over the condom, slicking Spencer up and squeezing lightly, just because.

 

Spencer hesitates. "Is...is it easier for you? This way?" he asks faintly.

  
Brendon twists his head, opening his eyes for the first time in a long time to see Spencer's flushed, gorgeous face. He doesn't understand the question.

 

"On your knees," Spencer clarifies, before Brendon can ask. "Is it—on your back, would that...hurt you?"

 

Oh. _Oh._ 

 

Brendon doesn't actually know, he's never done it that way, but he decides in an instant that he doesn't give a fuck, because there is suddenly nothing in the world that sounds better than being face-to-face with Spencer right now, than being able to kiss him and see his face while he's sinking inside of Brendon, and Brendon flips over without hesitation.

 

Spencer falls on him, kissing him roughly, and it's the first time they've actually kissed all morning, Brendon hadn't even noticed how much he needed that until it was finally happening. And they both have morning breath and dry, scratchy tongues, but it's kind of the most perfect kiss ever.

 

Spencer lines himself up with shaking hands, and then just like that, he's pushing inside—one long, slow, easy thrust. Brendon barely even notices the stretch and burn of it, because Spencer is _inside _him, and holy fuck, the expression on Spencer's _face, _and it's all just so—

 

Brendon has no words.

 

It doesn't last very long. It can't, not at this point, not for either of them—Spencer is too far gone from the moment he first slides into Brendon, and Brendon's been pretty much undone since he woke _up—_but what they lack in staying power they more than make up for in intensity. Brendon comes harder than he thinks he's ever come in his entire life after just a few short, jerky strokes of Spencer's hand on his cock, and Spencer doesn't last thirty seconds after Brendon lets go.

 

Spencer collapses on top of Brendon and they just lay there for a long, breathless moment, a sweaty, sated, messy tangle of limbs and lube and come, and Brendon doesn't want to move, just wants to wallow in this moment—in this feeling—forever.

 

Then Spencer lifts his head, beams down at Brendon with that breathtaking grin of his, and says, "Shower with me," and Brendon thinks, _No, hey, that works, too._

 

He beams back.

 

—

 

 

Brendon is walking on fucking _air._

 

He's so happy that he seriously doesn't even know what to do with himself. He can't so much as look at Spencer without blushing and beaming all over his face like an idiot, and he's filled to the brim with manic energy—he wants to _do _something, wants to sing at the top of his lungs or spin Spencer in goofy circles all over the house, or turn half a dozen backflips around the backyard just for the hell of it.

 

He has literally never even imagined that it was _possible _to be this fucking happy.

 

And Spencer—Spencer's no better than Brendon is. He's spent the entire day pushing Brendon up against random walls, kissing him breathless for no apparent reason other than that he _can, _and generally beaming concentrated rays of joy and contentment at everybody in his immediate vicinity.

 

Ryan and Jon are thoroughly entertained.

 

"You guys are _ridiculous,_" Ryan announces eventually, rolling his eyes in amused exasperation. "Jesus, we're coming back tomorrow. Try to have yourselves under control by then so we can get some actual _work _done, okay?"

 

Brendon tears his eyes away from Spencer, realizing belatedly that he has no idea how long he's been sitting there staring dreamily at him. He flushes. "No, yeah, totally," he promises, apologetic.

 

Jon snorts. "Oh my god, they are totally going to have sex right here in the music room the second we get out the door."

 

Brendon's eyes snap to Spencer in spite of himself, only to find Spencer staring back, and Jon is laughing all the way out the front door.

 

Spencer pounces.

 

—

 

By the next afternoon, they totally have themselves under control. They do. Brendon is proud of how under control they have themselves, actually. They crawled out of bed before nine o'clock, showered—_separately—_and dressed for the day, even left the house to go out for an early lunch at the little Greek place not far from the Strip that Brendon always loved even in his own reality.

  
When they get back to the house, they have less than an hour before Ryan and Jon are due to arrive, so they just head straight for the music room to get a head start. They both feel pretty bad about yesterday.

 

Then Spencer sits down at the piano and casually runs through a little Rachmaninoff like it's nothing, and Brendon almost swallows his tongue.

 

A veritable flood of flashbacks assault him in a rush the likes of which he hasn't experienced since his first tumultuous days here—memories of a Spencer who grew up right alongside Brendon, learning guitar and piano in addition to his beloved drums, even toying around a little with Brendon's accordion when it became clear that Brendon was determined to be _exactly _that kind of nerdy loser no matter what Spencer had to say about it—and it takes several moments of stunned immobility before he can even begin to process the torrent of reactions pouring through him.

 

Spencer glances up in concern and confusion, his fingers still absently running through the piece, carelessly brilliant and having absolutely no idea what he's doing to Brendon.

 

Brendon pounces.

 

—

 

It ends up taking at least a week before Brendon and Spencer are able to settle into any kind of behavior remotely resembling "normal." 

 

It's a pretty fucking fantastic week.

 

Brendon seriously _cannot_ get enough of Spencer. He sucks him off in the kitchen while Spencer burns a couple of hamburgers into unrecognizable lumps of charcoal; he rides him lazily in Spencer's Jacuzzi tub until their skin is all but melted off; he shoves him to the ground in the middle of a Guitar Hero deathmatch, drops to his knees straddling Spencer's hips, and grinds down fiercely against his cock until they both come in their pants, plastic guitars still strapped, forgotten, against their chests. 

 

Spencer is, if anything, worse even than Brendon. Brendon hadn't honestly known it was possible to _have _this much sex.

 

Eventually, though, they do manage to settle down. They've got an album to write, even if Brendon already hates every single thing that's going to end up on it, and their bandmates aren't going to sit by patiently forever while the two of them trip giddily through life in a happy haze of total uselessness. The "real" Ryan Ross would have long since killed them both by now.

 

Brendon doesn't actually want to spend too much time thinking about the "real" world right now, though.

 

So they write a couple of songs, and they start talking studio dates and tour plans and promotional press with the suits, and life moves on around them at a lazy, comfortable pace. Brendon and Spencer spend their nights curled together in Spencer's enormous bed, talking and laughing quietly late into the night, and fucking each other blind whenever the mood strikes. Spencer is...Brendon doesn't even have words for what Spencer is, for what it feels like to be this close to him. To be _allowed _to be this close to him. To hook ankles under the breakfast table. To slide arms around waists, and prop chins on shoulders, and snuggle half-tangled together on the sofa to watch TV. 

  
To reach out for cuddles and find Spencer already reaching back.

 

It's pretty much the most amazing thing ever.

 

Another month slips by before he even notices it happening. 

 

And...okay. It's not _all _lightness and perfection. Brendon still feels sick inside, every time he looks at some new page of Ryan's lyrics—none of the clever phrases or sharply witty observations can cover the underlying sense of loneliness in the words, the aching thread of isolation underneath the angry lines. Brendon feels each one like an accusation, and it kills him a little inside. His attempts to reach out to Ryan continue to be rebuffed, and to make things worse, Spencer has started to notice Brendon's increased attentions to Ryan and is...not exactly getting his back up about it, but there is definitely a growing coolness in his eyes when he looks at Ryan. Everything about that is so wrong it hurts, and Brendon doesn't know what to do about it anymore.

 

He's busy playing out his frustrations on the piano when Spencer corners him.

 

"I want to tell my parents. Tonight."

  
Brendon goes still, glancing up at Spencer in honest surprise. They haven't really discussed this thing between them in any concrete way, although Brendon has no doubt that it's serious. For both of them.

  
Still, telling his parents is a pretty big step. Brendon isn't opposed to it, just startled.

 

"All right," he agrees cautiously. "If you...if that's what you want."

 

"Is it what _you_ want?" Spencer sits beside Brendon, taking his hand and tangling their fingers together. He's biting his lip, and looks almost nervous.

 

"Hey," Brendon says softly, tugging on Spencer's lower lip with his thumb until Spencer's teeth release it. "I want this, Spence. I'm in. If you're ready to tell your parents, I'm ready to be right there beside you." He hesitates. "I just want you to know that I don't..._need _that from you, or _expect _it—I know your parents won't take it like mine did, but it's still a really big deal, and I would never ask—"

 

Spencer kisses him, and it's been a month, but Brendon can't help the way his thoughts still slide right out of his head every time Spencer does that. He thinks maybe they always will.

 

"_I'm _asking," Spencer tells him when they break for air. It takes Brendon a minute to reacquire his original line of thought. "We're going to be recording in less than two months, and then we'll be back out on tour, and—I think they're going to be really happy, Bren. I'd just like to tell them, now, so it isn't some bombshell we're dropping later and then running away."

 

Brendon is pretty sure his expression has gone vague and dreamy, possibly with little cartoon hearts instead of eyes, but Spencer doesn't seem to mind so Brendon can't, either. "Tonight, then," he agrees, and lets himself be swept away in another of Spencer's kisses. 

 

—

 

The Smiths react to the news like Spencer has just announced that they won the lottery, which flatters Brendon to an almost embarrassing degree. They insist on taking the boys out for a celebratory dinner, where Spencer and Brendon end up being recognized and pestered for photos and autographs, and they can't kiss or even hold hands for fear of someone catching it on camera, but it's a wonderful night nonetheless.

 

"I think Crystal's picking china patterns," Brendon says, laughing, as they let themselves in the front door. "Which, just so you know, I saw some totally badass plastic Finding Nemo dishes the other day with like, actual liquid and little plastic fish floating around inside, and they seriously made me want to have a dinner party right there on the spot, so—"

 

"Take your clothes off," says Spencer.

 

Brendon freezes halfway through tossing his keys on the table, and turns, his breath catching a little in his throat. Spencer is leaning against the front door, his eyes dark.

 

Brendon swallows thickly as the whole mood of the room changes, just like that. "Why don't you come take them off me?"

 

"I don't want to take them off you."

 

Brendon bites his lip against a sudden rush of excitement as he tries to figure out Spencer's game. There's nothing bossy or dominant in Spencer's tone, just simple statement of fact—in fact, Spencer's head is tilted slightly, like a question, like he's not quite sure that this is okay.

  
This is _totally _okay. Brendon has long since accepted that pretty much anything Spencer asks him for with that look in his eyes is going to be way more than just "okay" with Brendon.

 

He tilts his own head slightly, stripping off his shirt and watching Spencer closely. "What _do _you want?" he asks, genuinely curious.

 

Spencer still hasn't moved from his position against the door. He swallows, and when he speaks, his voice is a little low, a little gritty, but still just unsteady enough to betray a hint of uncertainty. Even after a month, they're still learning how to navigate this thing between them, still so careful with each other as they figure it all out. 

 

That Spencer is trying something like this now, that he's pushing just a little—that's almost as hot as whatever it is he's actually got planned could possibly be.

 

"I want you to get naked," he says slowly, and he doesn't look away from Brendon's eyes. "I want you to get naked, and then just let me have you, let me do whatever I want to you for as long as I can until you finally can't take it anymore. I want to do all the things I've ever imagined doing to you, one at a time, until I figure out which ones make you go completely crazy, what you like best, what noises you make when you're half out of your head and can't control yourself anymore."

 

Brendon's mouth goes completely dry, his knees almost giving out from under him. He raises shaking hands to the button of his jeans and fumbles at it with clumsy, stupid fingers. "Jesus Christ, Spencer..."

 

"Is that a yes?"

 

Brendon fumbles more frantically at the button, already panting a little. "Fuck," he says weakly. "Fuck, _yes, _yeah, Jesus." 

 

Spencer smiles, and Brendon swears he's actually dizzy under the force of it. "Take your pants off, Brendon."

 

Brendon swallows, and finally manages to release the fucking button. He sighs shakily in relief, and sheds the rest of his clothes right there in the entryway, standing there totally naked, giving himself to Spencer.

 

"When you're done with me," he manages, as Spencer finally pushes away from the door and comes closer to where Brendon stands, "when—when you're done, you should know, it's totally going to be my turn."

 

Spencer grins, and leans in to mouth gently at Brendon's jaw. "That sounds fair," he says softly against Brendon's skin. "But I should probably warn you, I've had a _lot _of time to think about this, so..." He drags his open mouth over Brendon's, just a hot slow slide of wet, parted lips, a tease of a kiss. "This is gonna take awhile."

 

Brendon moans.

 

_Way _more than okay.

 

—

 


	4. baby, if I could

_4._

_baby, if I could_

 

 

 

The next day, Ryan doesn't show up to write.

 

They try calling him several times to no avail, and eventually Brendon digs the spare key to his condo out of the little drawer by the telephone, and goes over to check up on him himself. 

 

Ryan is a stick-thin, shivering mess beneath a sky-high mountain of blankets on his bed. His face is flushed, his eyes glassy, and he's obviously more miserable than any human being should ever be. There's an empty plastic trash can on the floor next to his bed. It's clean, but smells overwhelmingly of vomit, and the thought of him puking helplessly all alone and then struggling to clean out the trash can himself makes Brendon want to cry a little.

 

"You're an idiot," he says gently, in an unconscious mimicry of Spencer. "Why the fuck didn't you call for help?"

 

Ryan looks at him oddly. "What could you possibly have helped with?"

  
Brendon's chest aches. They live in each other's pockets half the year, and Ryan grew up right down the street from Spencer—Brendon has the memories of childhood friendship, even if he wasn't there to experience it—but Ryan still seems so _alone _all the time.

 

Brendon did this. Ryan is what Brendon made him, and Brendon thinks he might be the next one throwing up.

 

He flatly ignores Ryan's repeated suggestions that he leave ("Let me die in peace," is actually the phrasing he chooses), and calls Spencer to tell him he's going to be awhile.

 

"He's sick as a dog," Brendon says miserably. "I can't just leave him here."

 

"Yes, you can," Ryan calls out from the bedroom. Brendon rolls his eyes and doesn't dignify that with a response.

 

"You need help?" Spencer offers, and Brendon wants to say yes, but he _owes _Ryan this—owes him _way _more than this, owes him more than he can ever make right—and he can't bring himself to let anyone else take even part of the responsibility for making it better. Not even Spencer.

 

"I got it," he says quietly. "I'll be home later."

 

An hour later, Ryan has been dosed with Tylenol and Pepto-Bismol. His sheets have been changed, and Brendon even managed to get him into a lukewarm shower, which Ryan bitched about the entire time, shivering miserably under the spray. He's clean and dry now, though, and his mouth has been rinsed out, and he looks happier in spite of himself with his new situation.

 

He also looks half-asleep.

 

"Thank you for everything," he says, and it's not _stiff, _exactly, just. Oddly formal.

 

Also, it's another attempt at a dismissal, and Brendon doesn't know whether to pity him for his naiveté, or be impressed with his persistence.

 

"Go to sleep," is all he says, and Ryan is too exhausted to do anything but obey.

 

Brendon spends the afternoon in Ryan's living room, the bedroom door open so he can hear any movement inside, and later, when Ryan wakes up nauseous and shaky and feverish all over again, he quietly cleans up the mess and starts over.

 

—

 

 

Ryan gets weird around Brendon after that. 

 

He seems embarrassed at first, and then uncertain and a little vulnerable, like he's not sure what to make of Brendon at all anymore. Brendon thinks he's being an idiot again, and tells him so.

 

"You've been my friend since I was—" _fifteen _—"five years old," he says, exasperated. "You were _sick._ Friends help each other, Ryan, get over it. Jesus."

 

But Ryan doesn't get over it. He stares at Brendon a lot, now, and Spencer has definitely noticed. The distance between Spencer and Ryan is more prominent than ever before, not that Spencer is ever actively cold or combative about it. For all Brendon knows, Ryan might not even be _aware _of the distance, but Brendon is, and it twists him up inside.

 

In July, they manage to finish writing the album, with a month to spare for polish and last-minute adjustments, and Spencer starts dropping broad hints about some trip he's got planned for the two of them. Brendon cheerfully heckles him for hints for a week and a half, to no avail. Brendon isn't even allowed to pack his own bags before they leave.

 

"Holy _shit!"_ Brendon exclaims, when he finally sees where they're going. "Spencer! _Spencer!_ You're taking me to _Disney World??"_

 

Spencer fucking _beams _at him, and Brendon's pulse starts racing like he's still just a kid with a crush on a boy, instead of like a grown adult who's been dating Spencer seriously for something like three months. It's ridiculous.

 

"You like it? It's a good surprise?"

 

Brendon leaps on him, kissing him long and sloppy and right there in the airport where anybody could see. The way he feels right now, he can't even begin to care.

  
—

 

Once, when Brendon was still slinging smoothies for a living, Spencer had come in on a really slow day, and ended up spending four hours sitting cross-legged on the counter, slurping away at his smoothie and keeping Brendon company while he cleaned between rare visits from actual customers. He'd told a bunch of stories about growing up with Ryan, and about the weird people he met working at the doctor's office with his mom, and about the twins' latest stunt in their ongoing plans to convince their parents they were old enough to stay home alone without older brothers and babysitters getting in the way.

 

Brendon had told a few of his own stories, although they weren't as interesting as any of Spencer's, but somewhere along the way, Spencer had asked him, point-blank, what was up with his Disney thing.

 

The thing is, Brendon grew up as the youngest child in a Mormon household. There wasn't much in the way of magic or mystery left for him by the time he came along; with so many older brothers and sisters, he never really got a chance to believe in Santa Clause, or the Easter Bunny, or even the Tooth Fairy—there was always a smug older sibling waiting in the wings to burst that bubble for him before it even really had a chance to form. There was God, and there was music, and that was as close to believing in magic as Brendon ever got.

 

Throw in the natural loneliness of a youngest child, especially one as exuberant and frankly exhausting to be around as Brendon, and what you got was an attention-starved, socially awkward little kid with a massive imagination and no outlet with which to use it.

 

"Nobody bothered to tell me that Disney movies weren't real," Brendon remembers admitting, a little sheepishly. "Santa and all that, sure, but I think they all just assumed that _nobody _really believed in, like, the Lion King or whatever, so nobody bothered to tell me it's wasn't real, and I totally believed in them until I was—way too old, let's just say way too old, okay?" He shrugged. "I liked all of them, but Aladdin was always the best, because Aladdin was just a boy who found a genie and just like that, he got three wishes, and he could change everything. I really thought I was going to find a genie someday, too, and then I could make the other kids like me better, or—my older brothers have more time for me, or. I don't even know, stupid stuff. But I believed it, and then I didn't anymore but I still...every time I watch it, I sort of still get that same feeling from when I was a kid? Like, I think maybe a lot of people like Christmas so much because it's a little like believing in magic again, except I never had that part so I don't really care about Christmas. But for me, Disney movies feel like that. It's stupid, I know."

 

Spencer hadn't made fun of him even a little bit, and hadn't ever told anyone else to Brendon's knowledge, but years later, he'd given Brendon a box set of Disney classics for his birthday, and Ryan and Jon had laughed like it was a joke, but Brendon had understood, and had been grateful. 

 

Now, standing here in Disney World in front of Cinderella's castle, Brendon has to swallow a thick lump in his throat, and remind himself that this Spencer doesn't know any of that. They never had that conversation, because this Brendon had grown up with _Spencer, _and he hadn't been lonely or isolated as a kid at all.

 

This Spencer thinks Brendon is just excited about the rides, and Brendon can't explain the rest, because none of it ever happened here.

 

He's getting used to moments like these, but that doesn't necessarily make them any easier. Sometimes, the longing for _his _Spencer just catches Brendon a little off-guard, that's all.

 

"I wanna ride Space Mountain," Spencer announces from behind the ridiculous sunglasses he's wearing in an attempt to avoid being recognized. He grabs Brendon by the hand and drags him off in what is, as far as Brendon can tell, a totally random direction.

  
Brendon takes one more wistful look at the castle, and lets himself be dragged away with a smile. 

 

—

 

 

 

It takes two full weeks for Brendon to figure out what he wants to do for Spencer.

 

It’s not that he feels the need to _repay _him for the Disney World trip, exactly; things between Brendon and Spencer have never worked that way, not even in the “real” world where they were nothing more than friends. It’s just that Spencer did something amazing for Brendon, just because he loves him—that still blows Brendon’s mind and fills his face with a huge goofy grin, every single time; Spencer _loves _him—and now Brendon wants to find something amazing he can do for Spencer, for the exact same reason.

 

The answer comes to him while he’s crawling into bed, totally not even in a naked way. Just, Spencer is across the room, sitting hunched over the tiny corner desk with a towering stack of Trapper Keepers balanced precariously on the sliver of available desk space not already covered in laptop chargers and Sharpies and boxes of envelopes and pads of paper and all the other random desk paraphernalia that hardly ever gets used but somehow can’t be lived without. 

 

Brendon grins fondly at the back of Spencer’s head, climbs into bed and leans back against the pillows, and suddenly knows exactly what he’s going to do.

 

It takes two more days before Spencer actually has a reason to leave the house for an actual, extended period of time. Brendon had to rig even that, calling Ginger in as a co-conspirator and making her demand Spencer’s presence at a work party with a bunch of nurses who remember him from his days of helping out around the office. Spencer grumbles—a _lot—_but Ginger is unmoved, because she has always had a special weakness for Brendon’s brand of sweet-talk.

 

Brendon flies out of the house as soon as he receives her clandestine text informing him that “the marzipan is in the pantry.” (Ginger would not have made a good spy. She seems to enjoy playing the part, though.)

 

Four hours later, he is sitting helplessly on what was once his bedroom floor, staring at a random pile of parts that the box definitely assures him are vitally important pieces of desk, but which the so-called “instruction sheet” is flatly refusing to explain how to assemble. He’s ready to start throwing things any second now—his current plan is to start with a few of these _desk pieces—_but he is manfully trying to restrain himself because he doesn’t have _time _for a temper tantrum. Even Ginger’s powers of maternal persuasion must be wearing thin by now.

 

Sure enough, his phone buzzes on cue.

 

_The elephant has left the circus =(,_ says Ginger’s text message.

 

Brendon stares at the screen in abject dismay. He is surrounded by various half-built, misshapen desk…sections, boxes of color-coded filing folders, two actual filing cabinets he hasn’t even _opened _yet, much less actually assembled, and a shiny black leather executive computer chair still covered in shrink-wrap. 

 

He’s so fucked.

 

He barely has time to at least partially organize some of the mess before he hears the front door opening, and Spencer already calling out to him as he makes his way up the stairs.

 

“Oh my _god, _my mother is such a liar, half those women didn’t even _work _there when I did, and I will seriously never forgive you for not going with—me…”

 

He trails off, standing in the doorway with wide eyes.

 

“I suck,” Brendon says miserably.

 

“What?” Spencer can’t seem to stop staring around the room. “What do you mean, you—Brendon. What _is _all of this?”

 

Brendon flails a helpless hand in the direction of the evil desk impostor. “I was trying to make an office,” he explains. “I mean, all my clothes are in your room anyway, and I sleep in there every night, and they make this look so _easy,_ it’s supposed to have _instructions, _and I thought—hey, I can totally do this, but I _can’t, _and Jon went to Ryan’s ‘cause I said I wanted to do it myself and he couldn’t stand to watch anymore after I almost broke the banister moving my bed downstairs to the garage, and—“

 

He catches Spencer’s eye and breaks off. Spencer is watching him with an expression Brendon can’t even come close to reading.

 

“What?” he finally demands nervously.

 

Spencer smiles, that slow wide smile of his that always makes Brendon’s breath catch for a second. “I just…you never stop surprising me, that’s all,” he says quietly.

 

Brendon snorts. “Really? Because my particular prowess for fucking things up stopped surprising _me _a long time ago.”

 

“Fuck off.” Spencer doesn’t even _try _for a bitchface, just keeps staring at Brendon with that same soft expression. “You’re just…I don’t know. I thought about this for so long, you know? And then it finally happened, and you’re—you’re nothing like I thought you’d be, and that’s so fucked up, right, because who knows you better than me? But it’s—you’re so _different _sometimes, I just—I don’t know. You’re just always a surprise.”

 

Brendon swallows thickly. “In…in a good way?” he manages to croak around the sudden lump in his throat.

 

“Yeah,” Spencer says, and there's a slight frown on his face that makes Brendon's heart beat far too fast in his chest. “Better than—I mean, I thought—I've been in love with you for a _long_ time, okay? And you've always been completely amazing. But now—everything you do, I look at you and—Do you even _get_ how completely stupid I am about you?” 

 

Brendon tries to speak and finds he can't. So he opts for kissing instead, backing them up against the doorway until he has Spencer pinned.

 

Spencer grins, and makes no move to get away.   “Shouldn’t we be busy building me an office right now?” he asks against Brendon’s mouth.

 

“Fuck that,” Brendon returns, already fumbling at the button of Spencer’s jeans. “We’ll make Jon do it later, he’s good at that crap.”

 

Spencer laughs, already dragging Brendon toward his bedroom—_their _bedroom. “So much for wanting to do it all yourself.”

 

“Whatever, it’s totally the thought that counts.” Brendon shoves Spencer down onto the bed, suddenly so happy he feels like he could burst. “There’s other stuff I’m much better at. How about I show you some of that?”

 

Spencer drags him down for another kiss, and doesn’t seem inclined to complain.

 

\--

 

August creeps up on them faster than Brendon expects it to, somehow.

  
The band throws itself into recording the new album, and Brendon throws himself into planning Ryan's birthday party. He's determined to make it a special one, in keeping with his still-failing plans to give Ryan the kind of friendship he should have had all along.

  
Spencer seems somewhat disgruntled by the sheer intensity of Brendon's fixation, but he really does like Ryan, so he ends up offering to take care of ordering the food and cake, which Brendon appreciates greatly. Jon volunteers to handle the guest list and invitations, so Brendon is left with only the tasks of finding and booking a place to have it, and arranging for decorations, entertainment, and security. He's pretty excited about it.

 

"It's gonna suck to be back on the bus," Spencer says one night, out of nowhere.

  
Brendon twists his head up. He is currently sprawled naked across the chest of an equally-naked Spencer, which is a state of affairs he will never, ever get tired of. "Because of how you won't be getting any nookie?" he sympathizes. That part actually _does _kind of suck.

 

"If you ever call it that again, you yourself will not be getting any for quite some time," Spencer informs him. "And also, yes."

 

Brendon sucks a thoughtful kiss into the skin of Spencer's chest, leaving a perfect little red mark behind. "I don't know," he reasons pensively. "We're young and flexible. Bunk sex can totally be done."

 

Spencer pokes him. "It's not about the _athletics, _asshole. Ryan and Jon have to live on the bus too, you know." He pauses. "I wish we got more hotel nights."

 

Brendon wraps himself around Spencer like an octopus, and doesn't reply. There are at least two months before they have to be back on the road, and he plans to make the most of them.

 

—

 

Ryan's party comes off awesomely. Even _Ryan _seems to be having a great time, and Brendon is delighted when Ryan wraps him up in a spindly hug entirely of his own accord.

 

"Thank you," Ryan says into his neck. "I don't get it, why you're doing all of this, why _now._ I don't get it. But—thank you."

 

And it's genuine, it's real. Ryan is…is _thanking _Brendon,from the bottom of his heart, for—what? For trying to make his life a little less lonely?

 

Jesus.

  
Brendon disengages from the hug and turns away, sick and aching and unable to look Ryan in the eye.

 

He lets Spencer drag him out onto the dance floor, and tries not to think about anything that matters. After awhile, he ends up being dragged away by Patrick, who wants to talk to Brendon about, amusingly, getting him to do vocals on the exact same song that Brendon had already agreed to do, back in the other reality. They spend thirty minutes or so geeking out in a relatively quiet corner, singing snippets of various new songs at each other, and it's a pretty good time until Pete pops up, snatching Patrick away with a bright grin and a careless apology. Brendon rolls his eyes, and goes to find Spencer, Ryan, and Jon.

 

He finds them just in time for the unveiling of the cake, as it turns out. Ryan has the seat of honor in the middle of the crowd, and that’s the moment Brendon sees the cake being wheeled out in front of him—the cake, _the _cake, the giant sparkly tiered monster with the sparklers on top—and he knows that cake, he _knows, _and he feels, suddenly, like he can't breathe.

 

"Spencer was responsible for the cake," Jon is telling Ryan cheerfully, obviously amused by the ridiculous-looking thing.

 

Ryan looks up at Spencer, and it's obvious he can't tell if this was meant to be a joke, or if Spencer sincerely thinks this is an awesome cake that Ryan would really appreciate. "...thank you?" he says cautiously, and it sounds like a question.

 

It shouldn't be a question. Ryan should never be looking at Spencer like he's some kind of puzzle, like he's a mystery Ryan can't solve, and it's all just so fucking—

 

Everything that's been so wrong catches up with Brendon in the space of that single held breath, and he looks from Ryan's uncertain gaze to Spencer's slightly-distant smile, and it _hurts, _it _hurts, _and Brendon knows what he has to do.

 

"This is for your own good," he says to Ryan, and it's nothing more than a whisper, half-choked and unsteady, but he can tell Ryan hears him by the way his eyes flick up to Brendon's face.

  
Brendon turns and looks at Spencer, and his heart is breaking and his throat is tight, and he thinks, _this is for your own good, too, _and then he closes his eyes tight and makes a wish from the bottom of his heart.

 

_I want to make it right. I wish everything was back the way it should be._

 

Then he steps forward and blows out all the candles on Ryan's birthday cake, to shouts of laughter and mockery from the other guests. Even Spencer is laughing at him, and Brendon pulls up a weak, brittle smile from somewhere, even as he presses a shaking hand to his stomach and oh, god, he's going to be sick.

 

Ryan watches him with sharp eyes that suddenly seem to see too much, and Brendon melts away into the crowd as fast as he can, unable to meet those eyes right now.

  
"Hey. Feeling all right?"

  
Spencer's arms wrap around Brendon from behind, and Brendon closes his eyes, dragging in a slow, deliberate breath so he won't cry. "No," he says, softly. "Take me home?"

 

Spencer brushes a concerned hand over Brendon's hair, but Brendon can't look at him, either, not yet. Spencer makes their excuses to everyone, then tucks Brendon safely into the car and drives him away, and Brendon’s eyes are burning fiercely, so he just stares out the window the whole way home, and doesn't speak.

 

"I love you," he says suddenly to Spencer, when they're safely inside the door.  

 

He's—he can't believe he's giving this up, giving _Spencer _up, and he knows Spencer will never remember this, because none of it will ever have happened and it isn't even the right Spencer anyway, but it's suddenly so important that he say it out loud, that Spencer _hear _him say it, that Spencer understand it.

 

"I love you so much," he says again, helplessly.

 

Spencer's breath hitches. "Hey," he says, softly, pulling Brendon into his arms. "Hey. I love you, too."

 

He's smiling, that sunlight smile that Brendon loves so much, and Brendon can't answer so he just kisses Spencer. He kisses him and kisses him, and he doesn't cry.

 

"Bed," he says, when they finally break for air. "I want you to fuck me. Right now, please, I…let’s go to bed, okay?"

 

Spencer's eyes darken, and he tightens his arms with a shuddering breath, and Brendon doesn't cry.

 

He’s frantic as they stumble through the house, needy and desperate and completely unable to hide it. His shirt ends up somewhere in the hallway, and Spencer's jeans don't even make it up the stairs. They crash into the wall of their bedroom, because Brendon needs to touch him, kiss him—needs _everything_, all at once, and all of it right fucking _now_—and the bed is just too far away. He tears at his own jeans gracelessly, all frustration and impatience, until he finally gets them down to his knees, and Spencer—he’s right there with Brendon, meets his desperation and matches it with his own, not really understanding _why_ but not needing to either, just pinning Brendon's wrists roughly to the wall with one hand while the other moves between them.

 

"Spencer," Brendon whispers helplessly, and then he says it again, and again, and he can't seem to stop himself from saying it: "Spencer, Spencer..." It's like a mantra, or a prayer—he whispers it into Spencer's mouth, presses it into Spencer's skin, breathes it over Spencer's cock when he falls to his knees on the floor, says it over and over until it means everything he knows he can't say, until it means “I love you,” and “I’m sorry,” and—

 

_Goodbye._

 

_—_

 


	5. change the world

_5._

_change the world_

 

 

He knows it worked before he even opens his eyes.

 

He's alone in the bed, on top of the covers, and he's fully clothed instead of naked and curled against Spencer's shoulder, and it worked. It worked.

 

He opens his eyes to an LA bedroom he hasn't laid eyes on in five long months. He's still dressed from his birthday party; his shirt is bunched uncomfortably under his side, and his girl jeans are digging painfully into his belly. None of it ever happened, none of it was real, and he can almost pretend it was all just a fucked-up dream. Just a dream, that's all.

 

He curls in on himself a little tighter and pushes his face into his pillow, and no one wraps warm arms around his waist and yanks him closer, and no one mutters grumpy sleepy curse words into the back of his neck, and Brendon doesn't cry.

 

—

 

 

He doesn't think he can quite face seeing anybody yet, but eventually his body refuses to let him hide out in his bed any longer, and he grabs the first t-shirt he sees and digs a pair of track pants out of his drawer. The room feels awkward and unfamiliar around him—he knows where things are, but his body can't quite navigate on autopilot anymore, still programmed for different belongings in a different room.

 

Brendon resolutely turns away from that thought and braces himself before opening his door.

 

He makes a beeline for the bathroom but doesn't quite make it, and he can't help the way he freezes like a hunted rabbit at the sound of Spencer's voice.

 

"Well, good _morning, _Jesus Christ, dude. It's almost four o'clock, what is _up _with you lately? We were gonna send in a team if you hadn't surfaced by five."

 

Brendon's throat feels so thick and tight that he literally can't seem to breathe, and he doesn't want to look but his eyes jerk upward anyway.

 

His knees very nearly give out from underneath him.

 

Spencer looks—God, _fuck, _he looks _amazing, _and Brendon hadn't even understood how much he'd missed that stupid beard until this very moment, and he's smiling at Brendon with clear, bright eyes that are growing more and more confused with every second Brendon spends staring at him like he's seen a ghost.

 

"Hey, are you okay?" Spencer looks alarmed, now, and Brendon’s hands fall open, suddenly-nerveless, the clothes he'd been clutching falling gracelessly to the floor, and then there's nothing he can even do about it, he's just _launching _himself at Spencer and clinging so, so tight to that wonderful broad chest, and fuck, he hasn't cried yet but he might, now, he really might, and—

 

"Hey, whoa," Spencer says again, gentle and worried and bringing his arms up to return Brendon's hug. "It's okay. It's okay, hey, what's wrong? Bren? Are you—what's wrong?"

 

It's the _Bren _that does it. 

 

Brendon makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat, and rips himself away to make a run for the bathroom, because the burning in his eyes is turning wet and fierce, and if he's going to break, he doesn't want Spencer to see it.

 

_("Spence. Spencer." _

 

_"Mmm?" Spencer mouths sleepily at Brendon's shoulder, his eyes already closed._

 

_Brendon swallows thickly. "Spence, please," he pleads, and Spencer opens his eyes to look up at him. "Stay awake with me. Just a little while longer, just…don't go to sleep. Not yet, okay?_

 

_Spencer frowns a little, confusion and concern marking a line across his brow. "M’awake," he says, soothingly. “You okay?”_

 

_Brendon presses a few frantic kisses against the skin of Spencer's chest. "Yeah, just…I just want a little more time, just—” and pulls Spencer on top of him like a human blanket._

 

_Spencer smiles down at him, a silly, sleepy little half-grin with a side of eyebrow-waggling, and Brendon stares until his eyes burn, trying to memorize that face, memorize that expression, soak up every moment of this night so he can keep it, forever._

 

_Spencer ducks his head for a kiss, and Brendon closes his eyes and opens his mouth, and tries to memorize that, too.)_

 

 

He doesn't break, exactly. He doesn't quite _not _cry, he's shaking too much and his eyes are too wet for that to be true, but he doesn't quite fall apart, either. He's beginning to wish he could, just so all the tightness in his chest might loosen up a little, but in the end, he only splashes a lot of really cold water on his face and tries to remember how to breathe.

 

He can do this.

 

—

 

And he does.

 

It isn't easy. Mornings are the hardest--those moments between sleeping and waking up, when he's all warm and drowsy and only half-awake, and he reaches unthinkingly for Spencer, and then reality comes crashing down around him, painful and shocking every time. 

 

He tries not to think about it much, during the days, and mostly he succeeds. Sometimes he forgets, just for a second, and tries to reach out for Spencer's hand, or tilts his face up unthinkingly for a kiss, and in some ways those moments hurt most of all, because Spencer is _there, _and Brendon has to make himself into a joke and laugh it off, when all he really wants to do is go curl up in bed and miss Spencer. 

 

So, yeah. It's not easy, but he's making it, and it's not like there aren't compensations. Brendon thinks he will never get tired of watching Ryan and Spencer have their freaky mind-meld conversations ever again, even when he's pretty sure they're mind-melding about him right in front of his own face. Ryan in general seems..._lighter, _more confident, like he moves more easily through the world, and that's what Brendon was missing in him all along, so it does his heart good to see it now. The day after he "got back," he'd stumbled across a half-written page of scribbled lyrics about the fanciful-yet-tragic romance between two trees in a forest who could only ever brush branches when the wind blew just right, and Brendon had been so fucking happy that he couldn't stop smiling for hours.

 

And there's Spencer.

 

Brendon's new favorite thing to do is turn to Spencer and say things like, "Hey, remember the time my old van broke down and we had to wait an hour for the tow truck and we spent the whole time playing Dirty-Word Hangman on the backs of all of Brent’s girlfriend’s letters?" He doesn't think he'll ever get tired of hearing Spencer say _yes._

 

He knows Spencer is worried about him, and how quiet he's been lately, and Ryan has developed a disturbing habit of staring intensely at Brendon for no apparent reason, but on the whole, Brendon thinks he could be handling the situation a lot worse than he is, thank you very much.

 

On the sixth day since Brendon's return to reality, it all comes crashing down.

 

It starts small, so small. Jon calls from Chicago, where he'd rushed back off to the day after Brendon's party with a very sneaky air about him, and makes an announcement.

 

He's proposed to Cassie. Cassie said yes.

 

Ryan, Brendon, and Spencer spend fifteen or twenty minutes bouncing off the ceiling, hugging each other and shouting congratulations down the phone line and generally behaving like excitable teenage girls, and when Jon finally has to go and spend some quality time with his new fiancée, they call in a massive pizza order and sit around beaming at each other like assholes and drinking toast after toast to Jon and Cassie in absentia.

 

For once, Brendon isn't even thinking about that other world, not directly, or about any of the things he's lost. 

 

Which is why he's entirely unprepared when Ryan casually tosses out the next toast.  "Here's to Jon not spending the rest of his life totally alone, in a deeply committed relationship with a dozen cats, all named after Disney characters. I was starting to have my doubts."

 

Brendon's entire body jerks involuntarily. He can _feel _the blood draining out of his face, he honestly doesn't know what the fuck he's going to say if they notice, how he's going to explain why he's two and a half seconds from passing out.

  
It's just. What the _actual fuck?_

 

As it turns out, when he does manage to look up a second later, nobody is looking at him at all. Ryan and Spencer are bickering cheerfully about whether or not Jon is likely to let Ryan plan his wedding for him, and how Cassie might feel about a Victorian theme.

 

"Forget Cassie," Spencer says severely. "You have dressed me in lace for the very last time, Ross. Don't think I'm not still holding that grudge."

 

"Wow, a guy grows one little beard, and suddenly it's like he can't even remember his own glory days of girl jeans and sparkly unicorn shirts," Ryan murmurs conspiratorially at Brendon, who manages a wan smile in return.

 

The other Spencer—Brendon's Spencer, the one in that other world—that Spencer had never grown a beard. Or, actually, given up the girl jeans and the occasional sparkly shirt; just last week, Brendon had borrowed an awesome dark-blue baby tee scattered with glitter and rhinestones across the front to imitate the night sky.

 

Sometimes, it's just hard to hold it all inside his head. Brendon's chest aches for a thousand things he can't have, and he pushes himself to his feet.

 

"I'm tired," he says, stretching expansively and making a show of yawning into his fist. "I think I'm going to crash out early tonight."

 

Spencer gives him another one of those concerned looks he's been throwing around a lot lately, and Ryan doesn't look up at Brendon at all, and suddenly, Brendon really _is _tired. He doesn't have the mental energy to think about any of this anymore tonight.

 

He's just emerging from his bathroom, teeth brushed and face washed for the night, when he glances up to see Ryan sitting cross-legged in the middle of Brendon's bed. He's staring down at his own hands in his lap, not at Brendon, but Brendon feels suddenly nervous and exposed, anyway.

 

"I wasn't sure," Ryan says quietly, without preamble. "I—I thought, sometimes, but. It was crazy, I mean, who really thinks...? But you were acting so strange, and it was like—but. I didn't _really _think, I mean. I didn't _know_, until tonight, until...I said it, just to see, and you knew, you recognized it, and Spencer didn't but _you _did, and I wasn't sure before but now I am."

 

"...Ryan?" Brendon is frozen in the doorway to the bathroom, his pulse roaring in his ears.

 

Ryan looks up, then. "It was real. Wasn't it? It was real."

 

Brendon's knees give out, and he sits abruptly on the floor.

 

"I have...all these memories," Ryan admits, uncertain. "Or. I don't know what they are. They seem so real, but not _real, _and I thought maybe I was just having a lot of really vivid dreams. But they're _not _dreams, and it happens when I'm awake, too, and...it's like they really are memories. I mean, I can think back and..._remember _things, like they really happened, but. But they don't _feel _like me. But—they _did _happen, right? I mean. You—you remember, too." He pauses. "It...it was you all along, right?"

 

Brendon is maybe going to throw up. He couldn't speak if he tried, right now, but Ryan apparently doesn't need him to try. He's still talking, inexorably stripping Brendon bare with every word.

 

"I mean—it was the cake, right? I remember at my birthday...or. Um. At the party you threw for my birthday..._there, _or whatever, in that—time, or place, or...? Anyway, there was a cake like yours. And you blew out the candles, but you said, _this is for your own good, _I remember that, and you looked—You gave it up. Right? You gave..._him _up. Because. It was Spencer, right? That you wished for the first time? That's why he was—why things were so different there. You wished for him, and then—he was _your _best friend instead of mine. And then...he was more than that." Ryan pauses. "Did you wish for that part, too?"

 

"No," Brendon blurts, and his voice is raw, rough and grating, but Ryan has to believe this part. "Or—maybe, I don't know, I didn't...I didn't _know _it was what I wanted, not then, but. I just wanted—I didn't even really want to replace you, I swear, I didn't mean for any of it to happen, Ryan. I just. I was lonely, and stupid, and I just...I wanted—something, I guess. It was stupid, it was just a stupid birthday wish_, _and who thinks it's really going to _happen?_ But I never—I never really _wanted _to take your place, it wasn't about that, you have to believe me. It was never about that."

 

Ryan watches him steadily. "It was about Spencer."

 

Brendon flushes, hot and painful, and drops his eyes.

 

"So, why give it up? If you had what—I mean, it was what you wanted. You gave him up."

 

Brendon doesn't know what to say.

 

Ryan nods anyway, like Brendon had actually answered. "For me, then. _This is for your own good._"

 

"It—I mean, yes." Brendon's shoulders hunch up in spite of himself, and suddenly he's talking, just spilling his guts because what is there left to hide? "Yes, because—you were..._wrong, _without him, and I never wanted any of it to happen, not like that, and I couldn't stand seeing you that way, so, yes. For you. But—there were other reasons too. That Spencer...I, uh. I loved him, I guess you know that. But he wasn't...he was different, too, and I missed—and. He was wrong, too, without you, and—and it wasn't real, any of it, I knew that, I just _wanted _it so much, but—I couldn't _forget, _either...it was always _there, _this horrible feeling because I was taking him away from you, and it was selfish, and I could pretend it was real all I wanted but I always knew that really, I just, like. Wished the whole thing up, or whatever. So. It...there were reasons. To fix it."

 

Ryan digests all of that, and then nods slowly and moves off of the bed and toward the door. He doesn't look mad, just thoughtful, but Brendon's chest seizes up anyway.

 

"Ryan," he says, strangled, when Ryan is halfway out the door. 

  
Ryan turns back, meeting Brendon's eyes.

 

Brendon swallows. "I'm so sorry."

 

There's a short pause, and then Ryan shakes his head. "I don't know why you're sorry," he says softly. "You gave it all up to give me back my best friend." He hesitates. "Don't think I don't know what that meant, or...what it cost. You don't have to apologize."

 

"Him, too," Brendon says, because maybe Ryan really doesn't understand this part, and he _should._ He should. "To give him back his best friend, too. He's...it matters, Ryan. He can't be Spencer without you. Not really."

 

Ryan stares at Brendon, long enough that Brendon starts to feel stupid and really small, still sitting curled on the floor between his bathroom and his bedroom, hugging his knees to his chest.

 

"You're a better person than I think I'll ever be," is what Ryan eventually says, and he's gone before Brendon can ask what that means.

 

—

Things are weird after that.

 

For Brendon, knowing that Ryan _knows _is enough to make him feel like he's living under a microscope, like his every word and action are being scrutinized and judged. 

 

He's wary of sitting too close to Spencer now, because his feelings are out there between him and Ryan, and he feels clumsy and obvious whenever Spencer is in the room. But sitting too far _away _from Spencer is a statement in its own right, not to mention making Spencer himself give Brendon funny looks, and there doesn't seem to be a right answer here, which is frustrating.

  
Also, there's something about someone else knowing what you're going through that makes it harder to hide, somehow. When Spencer declares a Guitar Hero tournament and then responds to getting his ass kicked by pouncing on Brendon, wrestling him to the ground, and pinning him there under Spencer's own body, Brendon is pretty damn proud of how well he's able to cover his instinctive reaction. He even manages a shaky laugh, shoving at Spencer and demanding to know what it is about growing a beard that automatically makes people suddenly think every dispute should be handled like a WWF championship.

 

Then he catches sight of Ryan over Spencer's shoulder, gazing at Brendon with an unreadable expression on his face, and he knows that Ryan can see right through his act, and for some reason, that's when Brendon's hands start shaking.

 

For all the staring, though, Brendon still isn’t prepared when Ryan waylays him one afternoon while Spencer is out running errands.

 

“You were really happy there,” he says, out of nowhere.

 

Brendon fumbles the can of Red Bull he’s in the middle of cracking open, spilling half of it over his hand and down his wrist. He has to pause, has to take a deep breath before he’s ready to speak. “Ryan—“

 

“No, no, listen.” Ryan sounds earnest, to the extent of Ryan’s capacity to vocally emote. “I’m going somewhere with this, okay?”

 

“I don’t want to talk about this,” Brendon tells him honestly. “I—it’s not…I don’t want to talk about this.”

 

Ryan ignores him. “No, this is what I’m thinking. You—you were really happy there. With Spencer. I definitely remember that part clearly enough. I have never seen two people more insanely ridiculous about each other, ever.”

 

Brendon can feel his face flushing painfully, and he keeps his eyes locked on the hand he’s busy pushing under the faucet. It takes him a minute to realize that Ryan is staring at him expectantly, like he’s supposed to have gotten something out of that.

 

“So?” he finally asks flatly.

 

Ryan looks nonplussed. “So,” he returns. “What do you mean, _so?”_

 

“I just—“ Brendon stops, braces his hands against the edge of the sink, grits his teeth. “Did you just want to, like, rub that in for a second, or…? Was there some reason we suddenly needed to talk about how ‘ridiculous’ I was, or is this just—“

 

“Two people. I said _two people_. You were ridiculous about _each other_, that’s what I said.”

 

“I _know_ that, Ryan! Do you think I don’t know that? I remember, okay, I was _there_, I know—I _know_ how ridiculous he was about me!“

 

“So why aren’t you doing anything about it?”

 

Brendon freezes, caught totally off-guard. “I…_what_?”

 

Ryan is staring at him now, suddenly intense. “He was happy with you. You said it yourself, he loved you. What—I mean, why don’t you want that here? With this Spencer? Is it—do you not feel that way about—? Because if you do, I mean…you’re here. He’s here. You’re both single, and you know—you _know_—it works, you guys together. It _works_, you’re happy. Why don’t you want that with him?”

 

“I…that’s not how that works,” Brendon says blankly. “That’s not—Ryan, I wished it. That place, it wasn’t real. Just because he felt…stuff, there, that doesn’t mean—he also thought I was his best friend, okay, he thought I was his best friend in the whole world, and that wasn’t true, either. It doesn’t…it doesn’t _translate_, like just because he felt something there doesn’t mean—“

 

“But it means you can’t even try?”

 

Brendon blinks, incredulous. “Are you fucking crazy? What am I supposed to say, ‘Hey, Spencer, I know you don’t remember this, but I totally wished us into an alternate universe where you and me were madly and passionately in love. It was awesome, wanna fuck?’”

 

“Or,” Ryan suggests dryly, “you could go with something a little more low-key, like maybe, ‘Hey, Spencer, want to go get a drink somewhere sometime, maybe just the two of us?’”

 

Brendon opens his mouth to retort, because, yeah, it would be _awesome_ if things were that easy, but Ryan _doesn't get it, _and intentional or not, taunting Brendon with things he can't have is really kind of a dick move.

 

Ryan is looking at him expectantly, though, and the thing is, he really _doesn't_ look like he's trying to be an asshole. He's all concerned eyes and supportive hand on Brendon's arm, and Brendon—just doesn't have the energy to fight with him.

 

He ducks his head and walks out of the room.

 

Ryan doesn't follow.

 

–

 

Within a week, though, things start to get strange.

 

Stranger. More strange. Whatever.

 

It's just little things at first. Spencer sleeps longer, and when he does get out of bed, he looks tired. He takes naps in the afternoons and Brendon tries not to be in the same room, because Spencer sleeping, mumbling words that are too quiet to make out and smiling into a pillow makes it nearly impossible not to climb over the backrest and squeeze into the narrow space behind his back where Brendon knows he fits like a fucking glove.

 

Jon comes back from his time with Cassie, and they spend long days on the beach, surfing, and longer nights in the backyard of Brendon's house, getting high and playing guitar until someone falls asleep in the middle of whatever song they've got going. They're technically supposed to be writing their third album, but writing is slow, and both Brendon and Ryan have a hard time focusing. Brendon usually ruins the flow by jumping into one of the songs they already have, to happy to be able to play them again to resist the temptation when Spencer plays around with the rhythm of _Pas de Cheval_ or Ryan plays the first chord of _That Green Gentleman_.

 

They're in the middle of just such a session (not really getting anywhere), when a quick, light, rolling beat starts up from Spencer's drum kit.

 

It's the chorus intro from _Follow You Down_.

 

Brendon freezes, heart suddenly beating far too fast in his chest. He looks at Ryan, who is frowning, like he's trying to remember something, and Brendon sees the exact moment when the pieces click together in his mind. Ryan's eyes widen.

 

“Hey, Spence,” he calls out, and Brendon's heart plummets further. “That's pretty cool.”

 

Spencer looks up from his kit, flashing a quick smile. “Thanks.”

 

He doesn't say anything more than that, nothing to indicate that anything out of the ordinary just happened. Ryan and Brendon look at each other.

 

“Um, could you play it again?” Ryan says, pointedly ignoring Brendon's frantic silent messages of _'shut the fuck up'_ and _'what the hell are you trying to do?_'

 

“Sure,” Spencer says. “You got an idea for a song?”

 

“Yeah,” Ryan replies slowly, looking at Brendon with a meaningful glance. “Yeah, I think something just came to me. Jon, start on a D and follow me down, okay?”

 

Brendon seriously wants to punch him.

 

Spencer or Jon don't seem to notice anything out of the ordinary. Spencer is still smiling easily as he counts out the beat.

 

Ryan plays the chorus, fumbling a note here and there as he picks out the notes. He stops after the second time, looking at Spencer and then Jon like he's waiting for a reaction.

 

Which he is. A very specific reaction.

 

Brendon is clutching his guitar to keep his hands from shaking, afraid to look up. There's no reason to think that anything is _happening_.   It doesn't have to mean—

 

But what if does? If it isn't a fluke? Ryan remembers. It would make sense if—

 

Brendon's face burns with humiliation. Ryan knowing is bad enough, _more _than bad enough, he can't even bear to _think _about what he'll do if _Spencer--_

 

Fuck.

 

“I kind of like it,” Jon says. “It's happy. Sounds a bit like something Brendon would write, actually. Another summer song, maybe?”

 

Brendon thinks of the angry lyrics and sharp edges of the song, feels his stomach roll. He looks at Ryan helplessly, and Ryan finally gets it, giving him a short nod before trying out a whole other melody starting from where the chorus left off.

 

“I don't know,” he says. “Maybe we'll work with it later. Jon, what were you working on?”

 

It works. Spencer just shrugs and picks up another beat, and Brendon gradually relaxes as the session goes on. Later, just as they're heading out, Ryan walks up to Spencer's set, leaving Brendon to put away the guitars.

 

“I liked that thing earlier,” Ryan says. “It was different. How did you come up with it?”

 

Spencer frowns. “I don't really know,” he says. “I just woke up with it in my head this morning, after—” He cuts himself off, and Brendon can swear that he sees a hint of a blush spread across Spencer's neck. A split second later, it's gone, and Spencer is shaking his head and climbing out from behind the drums. “I don't remember,” he says easily. “Why? Does it matter?”

 

Ryan looks at him, searching Spencer's face, and then he's shaking his head too, grabbing Spencer's arm and heading for the door. “Just curious,” he says, and Brendon could swear that Ryan is sending _him_ a small smile when he says it.

 

\--

 

Two days later, Spencer totally kisses Brendon in the kitchen.

 

He kisses. Brendon. In the kitchen.

 

Right on the _mouth._

 

The stupid part is, Brendon doesn’t even really _notice it happening, _not at first. Or, well. He _does, _it’s just—it feels so _natural, _so familiar and comfortable, and Spencer just…he just _does _it like he does it every morning. Like he _remembers _doing it every morning.

 

Like he _knows._

 

It’s all very casual, is the weird thing. Brendon is just standing at the kitchen counter, eating a bowl of cereal, and Spencer staggers out of his bedroom with crazy hair and creased cheeks and half-lidded eyes, making a beeline for the coffeepot.

 

On his way past Brendon, he slips a swift, familiar hand to the small of Brendon’s back and, when Brendon tilts his face up unthinkingly, bends his head to brush a sweet soft kiss across his mouth. Then he staggers on his way toward the coffeepot like _nothing just happened, _and Brendon is left standing stock-still at the counter, a bite of cereal still hanging suspended, halfway between the bowl and his mouth.

 

He whips around, heart pounding, to stare at Spencer, who is pouring a mug of coffee and looking—to be perfectly frank—still considerably more than half-asleep. Then he turns to Ryan, whose eyes are easily as wide as his own, and sends him a helpless, incredulous look.

 

Ryan quirks his left eyebrow, and the right-side corner of his mouth. _I know, right??!_ says the eyebrow. _Plus I totally told you so,_ adds the corner of his mouth.

 

Brendon really resents that _this _is when his latent mind-melding powers have apparently decided to kick in.

 

He makes a face in return, which he hopes manages to fully convey the thoughtful, nuanced message of, _Fuck you, dicksmack, this is no time for your bullshit! HELP ME!_

 

Ryan rolls his eyes in response, makes meaningful eyebrows in the direction of the still-oblivious Spencer, and then makes an elaborate show out of leaving the room and loudly closing the guest-room door behind himself.

 

Spencer glances up from his coffee. “Mmm. Morning. Where’d Ryan go?”

 

He’s starting to sound—and look—a bit more coherent, but is still not showing the slightest hint of reaction to the kiss. Like, Brendon could not swear, in a court of law, that Spencer even realizes there _was _a kiss.

 

He has absolutely no idea what the fuck he’s supposed to do right now.

 

Spencer frowns, and Brendon realizes that he might be staring a little. With, like, his mouth hanging open, and probably saucer-eyes.

 

So. Intelligent _and _sexy. Awesome.

 

“You okay?”

 

Brendon swallows, because this—this is totally it, right? Spencer just _kissed_ him. And even though it probably doesn't, like, _mean _anything, Brendon has to _ask_ at least. Right? He just—yeah.

 

Okay.

 

“You kissed me,” he blurts. And he doesn't really know how he was expecting that sentence to come out—frankly, he's kind of grateful that he was able to form words at all—but the shaky, too-affected tone that he ends up with is not what he would have hoped for.

 

Spencer blinks. “What are you talking about?”

 

Brendon wonders if it is actually possible to die of embarrassment, because if it is, he would totally not object to doing that right now. And fuck Ryan anyway, for making him forget for a second that this is the real world and not the one Brendon _dreamed up_ in some kind of insane bout of wishful thinking.

 

Spencer is looking at him now, and he looks almost nervous. His eyes drop to Brendon's mouth for a second and widen a little, and that's it. Brendon _knows_ that Spencer remembers now, and the fact that he's looking _guilty_ and _uncomfortable as fuck_, rather than busting out a declaration of love right there on the spot, is really all Brendon needs to know.

 

He feels a little sick.

 

“You kissed me,” he says again, hollowly. “Just now.” He should let it go, Christ, what is he even doing? “You…you kissed me.”

 

Spencer acquires a hunted expression. “You kissed me back,” he shoots back, defensive.

 

And. Huh.

 

Brendon hadn’t actually been prepared for that one to come flying at him.

 

He can feel himself blushing, sudden and burning-hot, and he drops his eyes to the counter in consternation.

 

“Hey,” Spencer says slowly, like a revelation. “You _did _kiss me back.” He pauses. “Uh. Why?”

 

Brendon flounders helplessly. “Why did you kiss me to begin with?”

 

There is an endless awkward silence in the kitchen.

 

“Okay, so I’m _sorry, _okay?” Spencer finally says sharply. “Look, we can just—can we just forget it, or…?”

 

_Forget _it? Fuck, no.

 

Brendon hesitates. “Did you—I mean. I just. Did you _want _to forget it?”

 

He physically _aches _with how badly he wants to pin Spencer to the counter and forget about talking, forget about everything; he _misses _it, misses _Spencer, _so much and it fucking _hurts, _and he hates this, he _hates this—_

 

Spencer looks terrified and uncertain and a little sick. Brendon can relate.

 

And then. “I’ve been having these dreams,” Spencer blurts, and Brendon’s eyes snap up again to lock with his. “They’re—it’s stupid, okay, but I…they’re all about you. About, like. Us. It’s not…I mean, it’s all kinda hazy and whatever, because, you know. _Dreams._ But—“ He sucks in a shaky breath. “But they’re _good _dreams.”

 

Brendon forces himself to drag in a slow, steadying breath. His pulse is racing and his head is spinning and he doesn’t even know anymore which way is up.

 

“So,” he says carefully. So carefully. “You just—I mean. You kissed me because of the dreams?”

 

Spencer takes an abortive step forward, but stops before he’s even close and retreats again. “I…Brendon,” he says, a little desperately. “How…how bad is this? Are you—are you freaked out? Are you mad at me? How—?”

 

Brendon laughs, a little hysterically. “Am I _mad _at you,” he mutters. “Jesus Christ. I’m not _mad _at you, Spencer, I’m in _love _with you.”

 

And there it is.

 

Spencer is standing stock-still, every muscle frozen in place, his face a blank mask of shock.

 

“Y—You…” he stammers, after what seems like a thousand years.

 

And hey, what the fuck, right? Brendon has always subscribed to the theory that if something is worth fucking up, it’s worth fucking _all_ the way up_._

 

"I'm in love with you," he repeats flatly, hopeless and resigned, his eyes locked on Spencer’s stunned face. "Big stupid love, okay—intense, terrifying, _crazy stupid _love. I'm so fucked up over you, you couldn't possibly begin to understand it, although you should totally ask Ryan sometime, because he has a pretty good idea. So. How bad is it _now?_ Are _you _freaked out? Are you mad at _me?"_

 

“I—what—“ Spencer stops, drags a hand over his face, and then, out of nowhere, bursts out laughing.

 

God, this was so fucking stupid. What the fuck is Brendon _doing?_

 

He buries his burning face in his hands so he won't have to look at Spencer's face. His stomach swims sickly, and he tries to decide if he’s actually going to throw up.

 

The hand that closes around his upper arm catches him off-guard, and before he knows what’s happening, he’s been spun around and pushed backward, Spencer tugging his hands away from his face and crowding him against the counter.

 

 “Brendon, _fuck,_” he says nonsensically, and then—

 

—and then he’s kissing Brendon, bold and fierce and unexpected, all open mouths and heated breaths, and Brendon can’t help it, can’t help the strangled, desperate sound he makes or the way he just _falls_, headfirst into the kiss, the way he wraps himself in Spencer’s arms and just dives in, drowning himself in a mouth that is equal parts painfully familiar and thrillingly, shockingly _new._ He doesn’t know what the hell is going on, but oh, god, he doesn’t even _care—_he’s needed this, he’s missed this _so much, _and all he can do is just give himself up to it, hold on tight, and hope it never ends.

 

He’s panting and breathless and dizzy by the time they finally break for air, seriously _trembling _in Spencer’s arms, dazed and unsteady on his feet.

 

“You—you’re always _doing that,_” he mutters blankly.

 

“Mmm,” murmurs Spencer agreeably, busy dragging his mouth hotly along Brendon’s jaw. He pauses. “Wait…what?”

 

Brendon’s brain is hazy and stupid, and it takes him a second to click to what he just said. “Nothing, I—nothing.” He drags in a shaky breath. “I meant…what _are_ you doing?”

 

Spencer laughs, maybe a little nervously, and pushes his forehead against Brendon’s. “I have no fucking idea,” he confesses. “I just—look, all I know is that I’ve been going crazy, and then you said—and I can _have _you, right, because you said you—it’s the same for you, and I just—“

 

“But.” Brendon’s pulse is pounding in his ears. “The dreams—they’re—Spencer, you—“

 

Spencer is already shaking his head. “Before the dreams,” he says, and then gets distracted and steals another kiss. “Before—a long time, Brendon,” he manages eventually. “God, I thought I was going to punch Patrick in the fucking face, and then—but. That doesn’t matter, right? Because you—you said—“

 

Brendon’s head is spinning, and he wants to ask a thousand questions, demand a thousand answers, but. 

 

But he can _have this._

 

And the truth is, next to that, the rest of it really _doesn’t_ matter.

 

Eventually, he’ll ask all his questions, and Spencer will probably ask all of _his, _and God, Brendon honestly has no idea how much of this story he’s ever going to tell. Eventually, there will be time for comparing notes and figuring out just exactly how stupid they’ve both been, for exactly how long, and exactly how much time they’ve lost.

 

Eventually.

 

That time, however, is not right now. Right now, Brendon only wants one thing in the world, and that thing is standing in front of him, growing more uncertain with every second Brendon doesn’t answer him, and Brendon lunges forward, dragging Spencer’s head down for another desperate kiss, already pushing and pulling and tugging them both toward the hallway.

 

It’s fast—maybe too fast—but Spencer doesn’t seem to be complaining, and Brendon knows every single sensitive spot on Spencer’s body and exactly how to use them to reduce him to a mess of whimpering incoherence, and he can’t wait another second to put all of that knowledge to use. A wicked thrill is sparking through every cell in Brendon's body, lighting him up inside with joy and disbelief and staggering fucking _want, _and it's humming across his skin and buzzing in his brain and singing through his veins like music.

 

God, he is about to _blow Spencer’s mind._

 

He gets them both into the bedroom and the door safely shut behind them, and pushes Spencer down onto the bed, going straight for Spencer’s wrist kink and pinning them both firmly to the bed. 

 

It’s Spencer’s turn to catch his breath, stunned, his eyes going wide and dazed and a little glassy as he stares up at Brendon in silent shock.

 

Brendon smiles.

 

_Fin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out the vid redorchids made for me! (http://redorchids.livejournal.com/67917.html)


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